Helen

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Helen

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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

 

ruins.

 

 

.

Copyright © 1995 by Allison Grayhurst

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amazon.com/author/allisongrayhurst

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Published in “Madness Muse Press LLC” May 2018

5 Poems by Allison Grayhurst

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You can listen to the poem by clicking below:

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