Sunday, August 16, 2015


Let it come like the wave with
                                    the salty foam. Let it reflect
            my insides like a face held towards
                        new cutlery. Let it take my rhythm for
            its own, express it in the wings of angry crows
and the trees in communion with the wind.
                                    Let it steel my lover for four nights,
            leave my bed an empty socket for all my
demons to gather and join. Let it hurl
                        a fist at the clock, at the pressure of duty
            and guilt I should not feel. Let it mimic
my cries at the corner store where a woman
                                    sits on a curb, crazy with undirected grief.
Let it be in the eyes of my cat as he stalks
                        the birds in his mind.
            Let me kneel before it in my room,
and tell my husband what I have found.
                                    Let it be like a fledgling in the morning singing
                        or like a wound that alters my appearance.

Allison Grayhurst

Helpless I do not know if good intentions prevail among the elected, among the appointed, leaving me apprehensive that the fate ...