Allison Grayhurst




The ringing bells,

the stone on high

that falls like a swan

with broken wings

are things that hound me

with a chill and send my peace reeling.

I wait for you under the arches –

May, June, July until November.

I am a silk sheet changing to a

woolly blanket – breasts and tummy large

like mother-icon, and the end is

a far way off. To meet your tiny eyes

is what contains me beyond the fear

of crazy labour and the pure moon

that swallowed my name. This is earth

finally, complete with no open edges.

Like another country’s familiar animal are my

swollen ankles and weighted walk.

Sometimes I am bewitched by this declaration

of my mortal being and sometimes, trapped

in the change like a cat behind closed windows.

Will I be good to you, little one? Will it be

natural, our song…

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