I walked the Circle


I walked the Circle



I walked in a strange place

where light was named darkness

and darkness named light

and knew it was my new home.

How can this be? I asked myself,

inspecting each inversion

of authenticity. Gravity, I answered,

wiping off dust, pulling down the thick clouds.

Sorrow crept into my sleep, confusion

hijacked my taste buds.

Beauty was seen only

in the plastic, unnaturally perfect.

And the mortal gift, betrayed.

Among the ants and rodents I felt safe,

pretended I was their kin, and they welcomed me.

We crept through weeds, jumped

branches and collected.

I gave myself a name,

refusing the strength of my true identity,

refusing the insight

I first had upon arrival.

The rivers looked blue that were really red,

the petal of the rose lost its bright juniper green.

Love lost the nipple flow of eternity and I didn’t know

anyone I could lean my head upon.

Memory is rounded, has no starting point, is the point of time.

These are the consequences, linear trepidation and

the quenching of fear and the felt-superiority of every nation.

Because the bread crumbs became the feast and the feast

was swept under the rug, willfully ignored.

I love my chains, I admit it. I love the deep ache and bother

because it is familiar, inertia, mine. But here

I announce

I will trade it for connection, for inexperience, the courage

of extreme risk.

I will forge in unknown territory, set things right

at least here in my world.

I have no king in gravity. I have no sound

forbidden to me.

The war cry is a split tongue and it deceives.

My war cry is the path Jesus takes me on

– walk, run, sit down – that is the way.

There are better places.

I love the red tree. I love the folding cold fires, insects

on my arms. Take care. Descend. Pick up speed.

I had a father. I have a father no more.

I have children, now they are grown.

Shame on torment. Shame for not not

letting go. Shame on shame.

Judgement is set aside, hidden behind the bench.

The bird feeder is up, the bird bath too.

Let them come, the birds, all manner of beast and fowl.

Let them find sanctuary here.

All seasons, I am learning,

are holy places, and all colours

are sacred, unnameable, the same.


 © 2018 by Allison Grayhurst




First published in “Night Forest Cell of Radical Poets” August 2018

I Walked the Circle by Allison Grayhurst



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