Broken Window


Broken Window



Flip, flop and pound

on the other side of night,

like in pre-teen summers,

peeling paint off the rafters,

hanging around at a nearby park and pool,

climbing the old tree to catch a glimpse, an ear-full

of your boy-focus and his conversations,

moving forward with solvable cares.


Days were burning fingertips on ice,

tucked in pockets after the fact, when being alone

meant you could soar (all senses alert) into the sun,

onto a past-life planet, more vibrant than

even your infant awakening, here.

Flavours slid down rooftops, made their way down

brick walls, painting

front yard gardens in watercolour tones.


I needed you to blow the whistle, remove the veil of the dull

horror of living without hope, of swaying back

and forth on the high line. I needed your devotion, not

your powdered nose appearance, lies of gainful tapestry

adventures – cut clean from commitment or attachment.


Loyalty, on the dinner plate, in the bathtub, honesty

in the eye-to-eye, I needed

to trust your words, that what was between us

would always be clean.

But so it stands, a muddy thick brew up to our throat lines.


I stand on stilts on a ship on stillwaters looking

all around. Nothing to see but endless sea – dreams

liquefied as illusions – love, impossible,

because I see, and all I see

is that I am alone.



© 2018 by Allison Grayhurst



First published in “New Ink Review” April 2018

Three Poems: Allison Grayhurst


Published in “Sycnhronized Chaos” May 2018



You can listen to the poem by clicking below:




One response to “Broken Window

  1. I love love love this to bits. Both the poem itself (the last stanza is absolutely delicious, I bow to you), and the spoken poem. Thank you for sharing Allison.

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