Periwinkle garden,

flowers folded

into a dumpling.


I sit on the bottom floor

of a blessing

before it builds and blooms,

before its face has distinction,

expression, perfect individuality.


Low ache of forming,

wandering cold plains, over icy lakes

through dead forests and caves.


Almost ripe,

platelets connecting, composing

a singular solid substance. Then


out of the egg and into the vast ocean,

forward, shell collapsing, imploding, out

free-riding, embodying

a fully sufficient infant form.



Copyright © 2022 by Allison Grayhurst



First published in “Ink Pantry” June 2022


You can listen to the poem by clicking below:


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