Cold wave, mother blue
as the dead and empty sky,
orphan sun sitting when
pity has passed, love
has left too for alliances with
the party goers, party-givers
and the run-of-the-mill wealthy mongrels
of deception and worldly favour.
Eyes to the pavement with
the strength and perseverance to find and pluck
the secret egg hidden among the stones,
pluck away shame, guilt and unhealthy obligations,
boil them in the boiler room, send
them into the crematorium
never to again inflict a living hold.
Once plucked what is left hurts like a severed attachment –
lost from warmth and the glowing light
Devastating, this violation of nature,
this thrust-alone on the high ridge.
Flowers here in pretty colours
are confined to gardens, to gravity
like the rest of us. I walk away from flowers
into a desert where high winds and sand
scratch my face, then
the corneas of my eyes.
Can love be revolutionary here, a miracle here
of abundance, soft affection? Can it be priceless,
a happy licking tongue, settling
for nothing that isn’t endlessly overflowing,
a waterfall, a child embracing
in fearless abandon?
© 2018 by Allison Grayhurst
Published in “Outlaw Poetry” March 2018
You can listen to the poem by clicking below: