I wish I was a snail

robbed of its shell, squished

underfoot, drying up in the

sun

so all that was left

of me was a thin crust of skin

that found its way into pavement pores,

and I could be disintegrated, be no more.

I wish I had no responsibilities

but to my solitude, my own thoughts

waking and sleeping.

I wish I never tried to love

because now I know

I have failed at love, to love,

to be strong when open, protecting

not only from the outside but inside too,

taking on others’ spiritual burdens,

not out of kindness

but out of cowardice and the delusion

that the world is anything but

a lulling zone of harsh beggary

and bully imagination.

I am a broken toy kicked to the curb.

I am nothing. I have nothing and

I wish I was a snail, dried up,

sensory-dead, flat

and inconsequential.

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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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It is clear

that finally we are

adopted into the universe’s time frame,

that time is not counted by cards

or the constellations.

Clear that light is not light-weight

but heavy

when it transforms.

Cracked leather belts tighten like nooses,

dreams crack then shatter and scatter

their fragments down the drain.

God is in the laundry room.

God is in her laboured respiration

and in her smile she now only shows

to strangers.

It is clear dying is not death.

It is its own journey –

a body breaking, a soul struggling

and losing

no matter the effort

to keep itself here, whole.

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Copyright © 2024 by Allison Grayhurst

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.

You can listen to the poem by clicking below:

.

Read whole poem:

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

.

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Last days, these days

roll like a slow-moving stone

across a stony terrain –

many bumps, inclines, declines

and turns.

Last days, restless then at peace

then restless again

as limitations close in so only

the essentials remain.

Last days are these days

soaked with this blazing wound, continuing.

These days there are no more plans

but to live through the days letting in

the undefiled grace that rises like vapour at dusk

through the balcony-door crack,

through her smile which she still manages occasionally,

keeping pace with the clawing hunger for relief

and the undercurrent smells of sickness.

These days are the last days

I can love you,

and how I love you, my mother –

your bright sailboat stalled

in the maw of this menacing wave

surging.

Copyright © 2024 by Allison Grayhurst

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.

You can listen to the poem by clicking below:

.

Read whole poem:

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

.