Chips of clear and broken glass.

Will I make this destiny-duty

intact or burn out on a hospital bed,

drained to the point of no return?

The stones are joy. I keep my smile

pressed on, my impatience under breath

and my dignity on a wire – pulled and tugged

by her unnecessary necessities.

When I am tired

the guilt pores in like

castor oil, down the wrong pipe

into the windpipe as I struggle

to regain our once synchronized flow,

but it will not return or rewind, as her love

only shows in momentary flickers now

before she dives again into these catacombs

collapsing.

She is owned by the morphine

pumping into her bloodstream

at regular intervals, pumping its purpose

to nullify her pain, while twisting mental foreign

tracks through her brain that torture her

with their relentless sticky grid

and serpents’ faces rising, telling her

she is owned, robbed of her

treasured independence, confined to home,

watching her once happy socializing light darken,

and you love her, you know her. You know

for a while

the monster will chomp at the moon,

will take the glow from her view,

soil every brilliant horizon,

will capture her honoured seat,

even conquer her spiritual home,

for a while

death’s rotting belly

will do what it must do,

bloat and swell

foul, naturally cruel.

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Copyright © 2024 by Allison Grayhurst

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You can listen to the poem by clicking below:

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Read whole poem:

https://allisongrayhurst.com/my-mothers-sky/

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Turn to me, I turn

skinned,

striking a blow

to the inner circle.

My soul is a peanut,

two parts, shelled, asymmetrical.

Unity is divine, to kill

is never excusable or brave or

holy.

The bloodwind is the wind

that turns to defeat every journey

in disaster.

Take a mouthful – swirl the grey slime

of decline and the sharp spikes

of uncertainty, to swallow and know this

is what is meant to be

and what you have is this moment

to love and this moment again

to love

and the rest is not worth one thought,

is too much to take in,

so take in and yield to its power.

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Copyright © 2024 by Allison Grayhurst

.

.

You can listen to the poem by clicking below:

.

Read whole poem:

https://allisongrayhurst.com/my-mothers-sky/

.

Blended

into this scenery, this sick bed

and the watered-downed horizon.

It is weak with over-empathizing

tearing crusts off until all protection

is gone from my soft mushy core.

I cannot acclimatize to this grief,

her life-force-fading drawn into my own

bruised blood of doom, dooming my

own cells and strength into this unfair despair,

unsoothable scorch and decay.

A washing down after every visit, care-day

so I do not mimic the symptoms

of death and dying and the aching

anguish of helplessness.

This path will not lead

to a garden but to a cliff,

a farewell without ever coming back.

Each step toward the edge is torture

when taken, is forced not taken because

there is no standing still against it,

no turning around, the inevitable is absolute.

This path is darkness, and this darkness

is complete love – heavy, high above,

a terrifying incarnation.

 .

.

Copyright © 2024 by Allison Grayhurst

.

.

You can listen to the poem by clicking below:

.

Read whole poem:

https://allisongrayhurst.com/my-mothers-sky/

.

.