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
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
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
You can listen to the poem by clicking below: