Crossing Over

Crossing Over



Crossing over into

a porous aftermath,

a root-return basket

of exposed veins and ligaments.


It is sad to be like a lung

that cannot fully expand, but good

to open a window and appreciate a breeze.


When I quit feeling responsible

for what I am not responsible for

I will be free to sort out my assets

and impressions, structure them into

a viable source of fodder and food for

all who I love.


      When I wore a uniform,

I thought myself the whole army.

      When I wore the monastic robe,

I placed myself at the mouth of the void

and whispered to myself achieve! achieve!

      When I walked with no arms,

only legs, no language, I thought boldly in block colors,

in over-exposed senses, smelling indisputable exactitudes

like insects mating in tall grass, and fish

rotting on the river banks, and even the sun

had a smell, its fragrance dependant

on the season and its placement in the sky.

      When I lived without a body,

lived as part of the swing-loop-spin cosmos,

formless and yet whole,

thick and thin,

curved and straight, sensitive

without the possibility of being wounded,

I knew crossing over

was treacherous.

I chose to cultivate the separation principle

and see if I could return to unity.


The body is a tale, the rest

has no account to record.

I filled my flask. I died fighting

and also when surrendering.


The law will never be known,

only fragments of the law, a maturing of,

and maybe even inclusions, after a long

century time.


Jesus is water flowing, limitless like heaven is

in vitality and truth.

All I must ever do is guard that connection

as the only thing sacred – everything else

that is irrational, rational

or cohesive or unleavened or supplied

will make contact but be redundant,

be imperfect, and leave

a longing, insatiable.




Copyright © 2020 by Allison Grayhurst




First published in “Ramingo!” July 2020

The Ramingo’s Porch – “Crossing Over” A Poem By Allison Grayhurst




You can listen to the poem by clicking below:


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