She rises from the flower-pot soil,
sad as a caged Queen.
Her hands, fixed behind,
pushing her head towards
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
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