By the whirling heap of fate

a new being is born – one that

watches, moves and holds.


One that stands without future plans

or regrets but takes two days to make

a decision and then sticks with it, in spite of

contrary opinion.


Blood on the knees, covering the unborn joy

that does not know if it can withstand the first breath,

but still kicks its way out of the womb.


There is nothing easy here on this planet,

its sharp beauty cuts and bends everything living

to the cruel unpredictable violence of survival.

Collapse, famine, or warm nest out of the rain –

the same parallel process of dying and becoming.


Standing noble when in weakness,

or succumbing to slavery

is the only vantage point choice.


Touch your eyes,

touch an outburst of sorrow,

touch beautiful geography underfoot.


Faith is a house, takes you in

to live sometimes as part of the furniture,

sometimes as a carpenter,

making furniture, sweeping,

making more furniture.



Copyright © 2020 by Allison Grayhurst



First published in “Chicago Record Magazine” August 2020



You can listen to the poem by clicking below:



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