If it is what you want . . .
in the dirt and dung of relationship,
leap like a lemming off the cliff
soothe your cracked hands in olive oil,
then take another’s hands and allow them
to join you in this private matter.
It is in this truth, ourselves with another, that
we test the mettle of our discoveries, the cleanliness
of the mansions we live in.
I see stillness in the saga, retreat
when necessary and triumphant vows
in spite of chaos and the blood-drenched ground.
I will never be fully born,
whole enough to join the stars in their whistling.
Each time it will be a sunflower plucked,
and the bee along with it,
each time torn awake –
on the threshold of death, only to master
the small stream before it widens into a river.
love is a miracle – the movement forward, past
jagged huge stones, decaying corpses.
Let your bare feet make contact, even lie flat,
naked, face down, take in
the sharp edges, the smell, the sight, then
answer back by rising and walking and
acknowledging the sky.
Say, love, my love,
you are more than habit,
you are the most treasured thing ever pulled from the void,
the only summer worth remembering, a seed
that turned into a thousand-year-old tree and yet still
just a seed, easily crushed, demanding nutrients and care.
Clear cutting, mud-thrashing,
faint smiles that unfold a cityscape of fears.
Barely making it, sure of decline, then suddenly, soaring –
one nod, the same need, mutual reviving genesis.
It is soft sometimes, but mostly impossible,
always impossible, alone.
Make up your mind.
Make a shell and break it completely.
Pick an apple, and chew.
© 2018 by Allison Grayhurst
Published in “Outlaw Poetry” May 2018
Published in “Elephant Journal” April 2018
You can listen to the poem by clicking below: