Those times, we hear a desolate chorus rising
and we vanish completely into its volcanic siren wind. This is the outstanding work of Allison Grayhurst. Visit her site and enjoy many post of interest; beautiful words.
Our Light Cannot Always Burn Whole
Nests that stay through winter
are similar to us at times – left abandoned
on high barren branches,
valueless until spring – if ever, even then, reclaimed.
We jog through bitter uneatable harvests, absorbing
disappointments as our only viable feast,
not heeding our self-honouring needs,
too proud to address imagined or deliberate injuries.
Jackets buttoned to the neck, we move in these sewer shafts,
trying to shake the foaming stench off
of each other’s tailored attire.
On our bed, we are broken, letting our arms rest
like a Spanish squid’s tentacles would rest,
pulled from pulsing waters. Our mouths primed for confession,
our eyes scanning features – short hair, skin under the eyes, familiar necklines.
We tell each other these things are worth
the horror of abominations
accepted as societal norms, atrocities justified as a soldier’s directed bullet.
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