With your random intimacy, you gather
like a fresh season
in my unchanging days.
The letters I write you
turn blue with sorrow, yellow
I am a woman
bearing this seed of false explanations.
Am I meagre? Have I calculated
truth and love, inch by inch
as severable, solitary desires?
I am sinning beneath a half-moon, wanting
to shape my thighs perfectly,
but I have only two hands to mend this wound,
and even their double skill and devotion
is inefficient for such a task. It is better left
to trust, to fate,
to an open-hearted ruin.
I believe in your perfect happiness,
your nunnery in a Montreal duplex, your discipline.
I will join you someday, look into your priestly eyes
and feel once and for all
My mind is whitewashed.
Your smile is surfacing
like a cleaned glass swan.
On the shore or in the sandpit
we will arrive,
whether it take over night
Copyright © 1991 by Allison Grayhurst
Published in “New Mystics” May 2018
You can listen to the poem by clicking below: