Sanctum
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Cedar wood, dark spaces under wood
where beetles mate then hide their own. There,
you smile, your forehead groomed
of false expression. I study you like my one-chance solution,
or steps to take to shield me from this penetrating boredom
that slips unwanted under my heavy housecoat.
Narwhales shaped like epigrams, like the undecipherable
complexities in the creases of your folded hands.
You are taut as a sail in a strong wind, capable of
unmatched speed, stretched, though not even
close to ripping.
If you were a tree, 100 years and on, pulling sunlight
from its throne, shimmering green, a stronger brilliance
than a vault brimming with polished gold,
still you could not be better than what you are –
sitting close to the corner, on the couch,
unwashed hair and an irritated mouth,
reluctantly waking into the noon-light, drinking coffee,
salted, sometimes sorrowful, mostly spring-time budding –
a supplier of oxygen, maker of songs received
as storm-sturdy harbours, worlds to land on,
dig or nest or claim a hole, many branches,
many escape routes, many life-saving homes.
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.Copyright © 2012 by Allison Grayhurst
amazon.com/author/allisongrayhurst
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First published in “Cartagena Journal Issue 3”
http://cartagenajournal.com/2014/08/10/summer2014-grayhurst/
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You can listen to the poem by clicking below:
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