A snail is a slug with a shell,
is like a hand with only one thing to claim,
was like my thoughts that leapt out of a stream,
fell on land and could not get back.
like a spider caught in quicksand,
gone into the murky underground.
Worry was a cavity,
a reservoir endlessly re-filled,
scooping up a cup, resolving a problem,
as old problems grew larger to fill the space
or infant ones formed.
Leaving the dramatic spinning wheel,
mending the wounds of sacrifice.
How long before the thirst to satiate
is satiated, then becomes thirst again,
greater than the first longing?
Why is there heat everyday and never rain?
Is time just the planets rotating
like spherical untouchable gods, or
is it nonsense, divisions made
for small minds to draw imaginary
pathways through stark oblivion?
When I learned
Jesus walked with his arms open,
his hands empty, feeding, being fed,
then I arrived in God’s grace
as though I had always been there.
My past was relinquished,
incorporated like a candle flame
into a larger fire,
into the greatest summit.
Copyright © 2020 by Allison Grayhurst
First published in “Raven Cage Zine” August 2020
You can listen to the poem by clicking below: