Purely dying

like the universe

bottoming out,

letting it all go into

a sinkhole oblivion.

        Purely fear of losing

the definite, the breathing lungs

in the body on the bed

and the heart-seized and blind from

its atomic power.

        Purely God

holding the stick and strings,

concealed and blanketing,

preparing her soul for this

divine beginning.

 

The hall light is dim.

The curtains rustle forward.

Her eyes, once wet with anxiety’s tears,

now see the angels surround, the truth

of boundless love, for her, for all.

 

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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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