Sleep, into triumphant sleep,
waking is a tide of abysses and senses
reflecting illusions. Cursory stresses,
repairing at the bedside where my knees bent in prayer,
scuffing my skin with cosmic complaining.
I’ve thought about this, and I’ve decided
not to care if I fail at swimming or grooming or trophy-getting,
or in collecting eggwhites, having more than what I have
necessary on the table.
Love is the weathervane is the station,
earning eternity, a teaming ocean worthy of a dive.
The rest is a stunted fetus that will never coo
or be baby-dream sufficient.
I’ve spent too long weight-lifting chaos’s hammer,
flinging myself from wall to stump.
I have eyes that hold me, another’s and another’s
I can take pictures of and sing to, and I wish for nothing
but to retain this fertility of tender revealing.
Children and the final history of desire,
predestined to return as a speck – own my freewill,
multiplying with the rhythm of a brighter responsibility.
Sleep, for I’ve never existed
but to count this love and to love this way
personal, a cliché of bloated ignorance,
with a mouthful of famine and an armful of miniscule miracles,
gestating, spiralling, blending into the soft brown sofa,
tea in hand, leaning on another, amazed
by how good this is and how very long
this cozy reverie has lasted.
.Copyright © 2012 by Allison Grayhurst
First published in “Guwahatian, Volume 1, Issue 9”