Dirty dish, I lift

and know I am holy.

Does is matter or mean

my feet are mine,

though they cramp,

and my skin is a littered shore?

After moving in, it makes no sense to dream about

round planets or miracles hunted down

between spaces, in the flesh of dark stars.

Blessings come like other conditions, feeding,

filling, then the fish is hooked and the river goes on.

How many cupcakes can I keep? Not many. Not one.

At night I wake up absolute,

solid as a never-touched stone.

I stare at the clock and have conquered time.

For that time I am the best thing of all things to be.

For an instance, I am more than metaphor, I am witnessing.

In the day I hold out for a fickle hand’s generosity,

sweeping floors and making beds.

What a hot rhythm to keep, like kisses and eclipses

of sexual elation.

Two thousand eons, and the cosmos continues

as a body just born.

Spotlights and warm lights, my love is my fulcrum,

he carries me entirely in the dips above his clavicles.

He mixes me incandescent colours, enters me

like wings tightly folded, plunging into sea,

coaxes me to thicken, be a builder, take what I can

and build.



.Copyright  © 2012 by Allison Grayhurst


No Raft - No Ocean



First published in “VerseWrights”



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