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.
platelets connecting, composing
a singular solid substance. Then
out of the egg and into the vast ocean,
forward, shell collapsing, imploding, out
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: