naked under eyelids
and summer beating out the
last of its heat, remembering
the skin of stones I collected,
hidden in boxes under mounds of
I will take them out,
read them like a diary and soak
myself with their flavours. Then
maybe I will remember my inauguration
into oxygen, a direction I can run in,
leaving crutches in the alleyway.
I can gather armour, carry armour, be rooted
to victory and the purity of murder.
The bitten moon, lingering, muscles forgetting
how they travel, how love is contemplated
and grows in sand, in cracked concrete corners
even when the wolves are nearing. Trust. It is
gathering. I will gather these colourful stones –
some tumbled sheen, others, raw
and ready for flight.
Copyright © 2017 by Allison Grayhurst
First published in “The Blue Mountain Review, Issue 6” February 2017
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