wide with surrender
with no backdrop or formula,
with the accomplishment of releasing
plans by the wayside into the swamp
that used to be an instrument playing,
a cliff of clay forming a tireless gale
of heavy sensual dreams.
I belong to you and to the strength of your empty hands,
the endings you leave me with, harvesting
ephemeral food – a soul full
of coastal curves that break the waters and is broken
by them, pressing and caressing the chain of tidal
obliteration as an umbilical cord connecting
to the vast sweet space that is you.
Never meant to anchor roots or climb a sturdy cliff,
you stop my struggle to illuminate a typical liberation,
gaining the wherewithal to stay pale,
upright and destined in my cage.
For it not a hellish home, but submerged
in the damp abandon of your shaking,
it is subject to your prying appendages poking,
tearing away speech and understanding.
I am yours, withdrawn from words into a connection
washed with elements of prayer but unlike prayer
more like lemonade to the day labourer or grass
to the grazing mare – away from bit, halter and reigns –
your sun sinking its evening heat into my back and shoulders,
erasing division, drawing an intimacy
that frees my blood’s natural flow, squeezes out
the clotted clump of summoning-up
of years scarred by grief and hidden,
.Copyright © 2012 by Allison Grayhurst
First published in “Change Seven Magazine, Issue 1.2 Summer 2015” June 2015