With your random intimacy, you gather

like a fresh season

in my unchanging days.

The letters I write you

turn blue with sorrow, yellow

with self-lies.

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

or lifetimes.



Copyright © 1991 by Allison Grayhurst




Published in “Synchronized Chaos” May 2018



Published in “New Mystics” July 2018



You can listen to the poem by clicking below:




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