She rises from the flower-pot soil,


sad as a caged Queen.


Her hands, fixed behind,


pushing her head towards


the moon.


Her lips as still as


trees after a storm, lying flat


and bloodless. She does not


let her hair down, or her


firm skin flex.


She has seen what lies underneath


where worms and millipedes crawl.


Half of her still there –


the other half, awakening


struggling up, away from the tar-sand






Copyright © 1995 by Allison Grayhurst





Published in “Madness Muse Press LLC” May 2018

5 Poems by Allison Grayhurst



You can listen to the poem by clicking below:




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