Pieces to Gather


Pieces to Gather



            A drowned fish, silver, snared

with an expression of permanent ache.

Eyes, fish stunned, fish glass

glaring from a window in the market

in the dubious afternoon.

            The shattered green

of ocean from a storm-struck sky,

lightening-flesh tipping, ripping the lid

and letting in the rains.

            Mountains of harsh winters, opaque

like the wings on a featherless angel.

Mountains, male in their faith and in their marriage

to moonlight.

            Chains, slate grey and criminal

as clouds over rainbows, as necessary

as a first childhood dream

laughed at, forgotten.



© 1992 by Allison Grayhurst




First published in “Medusa’s Kitchen” October 2018





You can listen to the poem by clicking below:



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