Tricky blood dripping
into upper wall cracks,
through the grout tracks
and into winter’s foreboding
months ahead.
How does it take so little to examine
the underside and know it is rotten,
flesh covered but disintegrating
underneath?
How many hands have to wash
at the same sink until the basin gets cracked
and the taps only release a trickle?
Tomorrow is today is
a slow-moving line bruised
with intensity and trauma,
clothed in brackets that shift then fall
then plateau before they fall again.
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Copyright © 2024 by Allison Grayhurst
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You can listen to the poem by clicking below:
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Read whole poem:
https://allisongrayhurst.com/my-mothers-sky/
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