Doubt
.
Afterwards, I sit on the altar
of my withdrawal. I will not kneel, rendering
myself a thicker chair. My kind, like
fangs and hooves combined in one secret
creature. A city without history, emotions that
echo but do not deliver. My dress of skin: this place
cannot hold me any longer. Do you see the thumbprint
of the ocean – crater like – in the center of every Earth-rhythm?
Unable to fully believe in Earthy-things and the sun in its
frame of sky, marching on and over – so tired of this
tangle! ongoing. going on. For hopes of a caress, an instant
of locked eyes and the merging of souls. My voice –
weightless as a dream. Desire is a shell, the scent of
cedarwood saturating the pores, memories I haven’t
yet encountered. Sweeping is the goal.
And love stays, but how much
is a basket of exotic fruit, and how much more,
imagination?
.
.
Copyright © 2010 by Allison Grayhurst
amazon.com/author/allisongrayhurst
.
First published in “The Kitchen Poet”