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:

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