Over
Under siege like an anthill
invaded upon by an anteater.
Summer is tainted
with humidity and boredom,
intermingled with strong bouts
of unholy despair.
I hear nothing when my hands
are outstretched. I receive nothing
in the hollow of the rock I am
crushed inside of and asked
there, inside of it, to be reborn.
Had I yearning once? Hope? Even
prophecy?
I don’t anymore. For months,
caught in a sticky web transgressing
in spite of rigorous prayers,
crying all the time for no reason
but release.
Time’s up.
Grief has become my skin, not even attached
to external loss, but grafted to my nerves.
impossible to throw off.
It is time now to tear it off,
piece by piece, and peel away what cannot be torn,
and burn what cannot be peeled or torn.
I’m still here, half a soul,
but still a soul
and it is time to claim my territory,
make a story and stay with it.
Light without heat is paint on a canvas,
illusion, no awakening.
Heat up, remembering
I am still here
and I am supposed to be here,
here, listening for a loud-screeching
spawning scream – an ink-spot struggling
creation.
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Copyright © by Allison Grayhurst 2025
amazon.com/author/allisongrayhurst
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First published in “Raven Cage Zine” December 2025
https://drive.google.com/file/d/1KW0UWFfIqyNpYjP2KeJwmAfDqAIlS-ZD/view?usp=sharing
Click to access RavenCageZine99.pdf
You can listen to the poem below: