The afternoon is here. You are lost,
limited, sick with inadequacies
and innumerable attempts
to forget the unknown.
The wolf that communed with your bones,
did you place the swan’s neck
next to his teeth? You did.
You were scared but in love
with red blood on white feathers.
You wish you had the courage to forgive
yourself – days, weeks
on the edge of a sinister conspiracy darkness.
You are the last of my history.
I can’t go on in this vacuum
of thorny hedges, trying to kill boredom
with these grandiose unsubstantial schemes.
I think you are lonely.
I do miss you, sometimes
I would like to have your wax figure in my hands,
hold it over a candle, to see how fast heat can melt
your virgin body.
Everything is hard. Hard hats, hard watches –
everything, even your striking eyes.
And the Italian couple who gave us cookies,
the are hard and hurting
And it’s no good,
it is just damn awful
to carry this sea full of creatures
in my stomach
to hurt like a worm
in the mid-day sun
attempting to mend this insanity
backhoe digging trenches
into my karma.
Please let me in on the secret,
can our gypsy dream really be over?
I want to throw the arsenic in the garbage.
I want to triumph.
Copyright © 1991 by Allison Grayhurst
Published in “Medusa’s Kitchen” May 2018
You can listen to the poem by clicking below: