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The bells

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The bells speak of a hurt

that is mounting the circumference

of a life, mourning the death that splinters the arteries,

the hip bones, each vertebra. Begging to the stars to tell

a colossal fable, a majestic myth

to solve this boring condition

of being here, away from the infinite sky, swallowing

mounds of dirt where many others have had their footprints.

Speak of woods, and of creatures that love but cannot

laugh. My lover, I am freed from the concrete

chamber – you freed me and helped me find

an arrow. There is ringing in my ears and a sorrow

triumphant, clinging to me like barnacles.

It is what I have chosen – to not pretend and to kindle

a primal inspiration. Desire like a ceremony –

days of meditation long past, but trances and

swaying and throwing words out, guttural,

epidemic with desire, those days are here.

On the roof, hands at my side. Hurt in my ankles and

in my teeth: A snake is in the front garden and

I am watching it.

.

.

Copyright © 2012 by Allison Grayhurst

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First published in “The Tophat Raven”, March 2014

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