Pale sleep,

naked under eyelids

and summer beating out the

last of its heat, remembering

the skin of stones I collected,

hidden in boxes under mounds of

typed-on paper.


I will take them out,

read them like a diary and soak

myself with their flavours. Then

maybe I will remember my inauguration

into oxygen, a direction I can run in,

leaving crutches in the alleyway.


I can gather armour, carry armour, be rooted

to victory and the purity of murder.


The bitten moon, lingering, muscles forgetting

how they travel, how love is contemplated

and grows in sand, in cracked concrete corners

even when the wolves are nearing. Trust. It is

gathering. I will gather these colourful stones –

some tumbled sheen, others, raw

and ready for flight.



Copyright © 2017 by Allison Grayhurst



First published in “The Blue Mountain Review, Issue 6” February 2017

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