Time and the matrix point
of nerves that sound off like
a dinner bell, riveting through
the body, vibrating the bones and all
that stands between.
You speak of shifting plateaus,
but the paint hasn’t even left the brush,
the walls are cracked, veined and under
the watchful eyes of those who walk the halls.
The rules you treasure are intricate masterpieces
of divine tapestry but they are not the mud-sling
upheaval, unpredictable holy heartache,
muscle aches that mark us as we grow old, and touch
each other in the day-to-day of waking up,
sharing the bathroom, the kitchen, animals
who belong with us, depend on us, and sickness.
Here is my watering can. It is sufficient. It too has wisdom.
One eye only that blends and interprets all perceptions.
Here is my tale, my acts of shade, shelter and sun.
The seraphim drive home dreams in vows on fire,
born from nebulas and the hands
of the bricklayer and secretary.
Yours is one way, powerful, yes, but so are the trees,
a toddler’s temper tantrum, the Lord’s Prayer more so –
clasped hands, no separation, helpless, wordless,
at the beginning, saved.
© 2018 by Allison Grayhurst
Published in “Synchronized Chaos” September 2018
Published in “Chicago Record Magazine” August 2018
You can listen to the poem by clicking below: