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Eating from an imaginary spoon

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Sensual as clay laced

with warm water,

hard as a window

barred –

and still the seeds are thrown

though I don’t know why – there is

too much earth and almost no sun,

there are slimy ponds that beasts and fowls

eliminate in – spotted with dead-fish-eyes

and not at all like heaven

is suppose

to be.

There is a funeral in the fireplace but no one

connected enough to mourn the dead thing burning.

There are seven steps up and nine down, and indifferent

cruelty has murdered every other form of synchronicity –

I see four walls, but have only three;

I dream the supernatural and am faced

with pain in my teeth,

and on my hands, are wounds

that will not heal.

Under the willow tree I hide my mirror,

small enough to be mistaken for morning dew.

I look for a point of origin, something to explain

how and why

we all must see it through.

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Copyright © 2008 by Allison Grayhurst

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