Ghost
Gone, dripping
down the drain
after a cut.
Gone, the sweet flavour lingering
of maple syrup on the tongue.
Gone like democracy from a land
conquered by a tyrant.
Gone like inspiration from the crushing
overtones, undertones, all-tones
of relentless grief.
Gone like a love that was once unique
as it was necessary, stretching her grace
over my home, my family and my faith.
Gone, and I have gone with it into a blackhole spin –
dream, here, there, no commitment, no connection
to the divine or otherwise, endless spin, inertia.
Here, a film between myself and life,
watching a screen, moving, getting involved
by remembering how, feeling none of it really counts,
feeling myself only playing a worn-out part.
Here, things I knew before
become nothing I know now, vulture-feeding
off my past false understanding, landing
in a heap of wet sawdust, taking forever
to make a move so I don’t make any move
and just sit, watching, not even waiting anymore.
Gone like she is gone,
unreachable, ephemeral,
somewhere else.
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Copyright © by Allison Grayhurst 2025
amazon.com/author/allisongrayhurst
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First published in “Winamop” December 2025
https://www.winamop.com/ag2500.htm
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You can listen to the poem below: