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 dreams

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:


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