The chain is cracked, only
a small tug will break it
and the wall will let down its curtain,
the leach will release its hold, find
a new host or none at all.
I empty my heat on the bed
toss with disorder, too slow on my feet.
But even so, I am carving a future
I can get behind, lift myself onto a plateau
that has many plateaus above it, sure of my growing
strength. It is possible to keep my internal
promises, not like before when the dirty current
rippled through me like a disease,
my substance and storages.
Can I say the chain is rusted,
dissolving, no access
to its binding power?
I go for walks. I am grateful
for the open door, one step
Copyright © 2022 by Allison Grayhurst
First published in “Ink Pantry” June 2022
You can listen to the poem by clicking below: