You Open Your Mouth

You Open Your Mouth



You open your mouth and

I am gone again like

before I could walk, like

before I had anything but you

and this connection, gripped

in a violent spin, intimacy purging gravity

by free will alone, blood for food and food

tossed on a gravestone, seeding a graveyard,

lording triumphant over reality, more potent than

waiting for the streetcar in a cold sub-zero winter,

waiting with wet boots and uncombed-through hair,

like fruit that never spoils

or gets polluted with scented-hand touch.


You say destruction

and I am beating the light,

slashing the torpedo into

smaller precise devises of doom.

You say reconciliation

and I am beside you, planting

my vengeance like dead peeled skin,

like waking and walking

to the bathroom, leaving the dream behind.


You open your mouth and

you open a door to a feast

outstripped of butchery and good cheer,

outshining all but the lover’s volatile love pitching,

emerging, continuing, clear,



Copyright © 2020 by Allison Grayhurst



First published in “Dissonance Magazine” October 2020



You can listen to the poem by clicking below:

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