Cry out –
the light is golden,
simple, with no secrets,
no detours of conniving depths
to trap the soul in a maze made of concrete
where no seed can root or sprout.
What was promised was always
the light, needed only
to be believed to be true.
Mortal spinal cords
and hopes that press like
the edge of a sword against
your soft belly.
Mortal light that gets
turned off and on again
by a switch or a changing season
is not the light of blanketing glory,
is not mercy in the pit.
Take this point in the fault line,
stand on it as it splits the crust
and everything below.
Here the light grows
like words inked on your skin,
cutting into the meat of your organs.
It is light like no brightness you have every known,
a golden penetrating, undiluted glow.
Copyright © 2022 by Allison Grayhurst
Published in “Creation and Criticism, Vol. 07” October 2022
First published in “Medusa’s Kitchen” July 2022
You can listen to the poem by clicking below: