….
For a while –
deathcamps, blue balls
baskin’robbins. Play tomorrow
the lute-song of today and remember
the ground-swell
pounding paradise into my brain, collapsing
from overload, reloading fodder
and flighty friendships I’ve lost use for.
Nothing counts, count on nothing but playfighting
over the bank, over the brim – rim – keeper
of the fixer-upper, of the still fire, fire still
as yellowed corpses. Mid-fall.
Fake it! Love! kindness, tenderness – be
polite, because very little is
anything you want to take with you.
Care-giver, carer of the children,
the laundry, pets and bank account.
It is all you are – rainstorm.
You must take this stone and swallow,
make peace with your burden, make love
with the swarming emptiness, stuck
in a gravitational pull,
planets, solar systems spinning around you
but you are heavy, must be,
unfazed by the pressured wind – stains
on the ground. Inside of you, chopped-up bits of fate
and crimes conceived before you
were born. Fake it, wallpaper it. Go on, try, smile
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Copyright © by Allison Grayhurst 2014
amazon.com/author/allisongrayhurst
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First published in “The Muse – An International Journal of Poetry” Volume 4, Number 1, June Issue 2014
http://themuse.webs.com/June%202014/muse%20june%2014.pdf
http://themuse.webs.com/latestissues.htm
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Published in “Art Villa” December 2015
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