Darkness heavy as a hunter’s
footsteps, as a sermon
up the sleeve, offered like
a ripe strawberry covered in ants.
Darkness like the green
on a last slice of bread
or the dome of pollution that mutes
Earth from the zodiac hymns.
Darkness that binds
thumbtacks to the temples,
dirty as a campfire after the fire
or a marriage after infidelity.
Darkness as a shell, hardness
masquerading as strength, terrors
of complexities, moral confusion
and the allotment of grief that mushrooms
in tiny pockets here, here, until all greenery
is overcome with fungi.
Darkness that holds no peace,
no joy in just breathing,
makes up myths and ceremonies
to try to blast out
the darkness, flaking at the core.
Darkness I am done with your engulfing disease,
your canopy wings, trickery, making me believe
there is rest and safety in your shade.
I lay down my fossils and my weeping.
Darkness, I blow you over
and when I am blown over,
I will offer no resistance.
Copyright © 2022 by Allison Grayhurst
First published in “Ink Pantry” June 2022
You can listen to the poem by clicking below: