Can this moment be a fruit,

a moist secret, picked and juiced?

Can I follow through with my leap of faith

and leap into the coal fires of survival’s uncertainty,

be selfish as the hunter who conserves nature

so he can have enough nature to kill

and make into wall trophies?


Am I a dead mouse on the porch who made it

as far as the first freeze, forgot

to build a nest and suffered the consequences?

Am I fortunate as the found street dog,

given kibble, a warm place to lay,

a pack to call her own?


Am I here maimed but alive,

like all things living,

crippled by the weight of time?

Why is everything half-formed?

Only young things leap and frolic,

free because of their dependency

on maternal sustenance and protection.


My endurance is threadbare.

If I wash and wear it one more time

it will disintegrate and not hold form.

I know nothing but

I do know Jesus –

the bridge and the tunnel below.

I know one way, one path

all else is

phantom blood, phantom fulfilment,

just renderings humming ‘yes yes –

take my false face as truth,

count my money, my grand accomplishments,

my soft seats, my high seats,

my triple thaw and my double freeze.’


The butcher is a psychopath. The liars are in charge.

Steady now, the hand, the moon dangling on a string,

say your necessary farewells.

Jesus is walking, walk with him,

eyes forward, summoned.



Copyright © 2022 by Allison Grayhurst



First published in “Synchronized Chaos” May 2022



You can listen to the poem by clicking below:


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