Open

        Soak the born

in their own initial conception

to remember the pure-memory-pockets,

the truth of miracles.

        Underline everything that matters

and read it again until no small word

is skimmed over or taken for granted.

        Open the shelter doors and let all animals

in, wild ones, broken ones, aggressive and tame.

Free with a blessing

every dream that isn’t false,

and follow your deepest duty –

both desirous and undesirous divine commands.

        Under the blanket, conspiracies are made.

They grow limbs that look like light but exclude

humility and the thumb-print of surrender.

        The atmosphere is big,

the button-hole is small.

I am small when I toss

my self-determination out as wisdom

and fail at every turn.

Mercy comes with obedience,

obedience comes with trust, and then finally

freedom.

        The dying are trapped in their wounds.

The living, in their success at survival,

but the gift is always

open for everyone, and changing

even without core movement.

        I have a boat and that is all I own.

I see flowers on the shore, rooted in the sand.

I see yellow and sometimes, I see gold.

Touch

The first touch was bitter,

tantamount to an attack, deception

from a vantage point

of spiritual superiority.

The second touch

was touching a tomb, still full of stench

though the flesh had rotted long ago –

just dry bones, barely

a full form.

The third touch

angered, like when a snake

snatches a fledgling, angry

at the innate brutality all around.

The fourth touch

was perfect, a release

from the swing-seat of darkness,

a blessed gift that came

at the first touch –

consciously cruel, compliant

to the sway of a lesser self.

.

Copyright © by Allison Grayhurst 2025

amazon.com/author/allisongrayhurst

.

.

First published in “Setu” January 2026 (December issue – Author of the Month)

https://www.setumag.com/2025/12/Lit-Art-Culture-Journal.html

https://www.setumag.com/2025/12/poetry-allison-grayhurst.html

Walk

Then the bitter defeat

was burning like a sin

committed, recognized

and unforgiveable.

Then on a hill, heavy with

weighted down legs and

an injury there, debilitating but

unexplained, the challenge came

to walk.

Walk slowly at first, walk like

I can walk even though the reins

are dropped and I have lost my mother,

lost life’s victory over death and the comfort

of an unbreakable love broken,

altered, intangible now as an angel’s skin

or a hope held for decades unrealized.

Walk with my mortal burden, stumbling without

a path, a cane or a flat plane. Twist in my ankle, twist

in my knee, swollen, bloated with a hot fever, walk.

Face a direction, walk, slowly,

commit and make it my own.

.

Copyright © by Allison Grayhurst 2025

amazon.com/author/allisongrayhurst

.

.

First published in “Setu” January 2026 (December issue – Author of the Month)

https://www.setumag.com/2025/12/Lit-Art-Culture-Journal.html

https://www.setumag.com/2025/12/poetry-allison-grayhurst.html