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

Small Moon

A small moon melted

fleshed out a sure-footed sacrifice

but changed directions, too quickly

into the direction of a red star.

Then her heart was burned, crispy

and crumbling, no more a perfect circle,

drooping on one side, gravity became queen

of her false crescendo song.

Hiding her deformity in the dark red burn,

hoping no one could see her misshapened side,

which she tended to only in hidden rooms,

chanting for a cure, bandaging her bloodied side

to try and form again that perfect circle.

A small moon strained to keep her crust,

could not resist flinging curses from her

cavity craters as she went out, could not accept

her time had come, that in the end she never had

a compact core or a solid truth she could rely on.

.

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