Eating From an Imaginary Spoon: Poems ~ Allison Grayhurst
on your wave
of wet torment, licking
the moon of your lips,
cradling your breath in my mouth
as I held you submerged in my contracting core,
held you within as you were within
saturated with my pulse and flow.
I went under, planted
in the memories of your soul.
You swallowed our merging
with rapid speed. We evolved, stripped of every season,
you and I with our initials carved on each other’s skin, undulating
in our sensual, blessed commune.
Eating from an imaginary spoon
Sensual as clay laced
with warm water,
hard as a window
and still the seeds are thrown
though I don’t know why - there is
too much earth and almost no sun,
there are slimy ponds that beasts and fowls
eliminate in - spotted with dead-fish-eyes
and not at all like heaven
There is a funeral in the fireplace but no one
connected enough to mourn the dead thing burning.
There are seven steps up and nine down, and indifferent
cruelty has murdered every other form of synchronicity -
I see four walls, but have only three;
I dream the supernatural and am faced
with pain in my teeth,
and on my hands, are wounds
that will not heal.
Under the willow tree I hide my mirror,
small enough to be mistaken for morning dew.
I look for a point of origin, something to explain how and why
we all must see it through.
Living With Myself
How many years before I arrive (guided as I am)
to the cliff, before I accept the fear, this view
as only a snake protecting my yard or as a way to keep me
ringing the bell? When was the last time a stranger
altered my octave, drove me, drum, drum
at the heels of some extreme belief?
This flesh is like oil paint that only sanding can clean.
My path is wanting.
I am with water, but no wave. I feel the water,
heavy as an avalanche,
soiled by so many fruitless beginnings.
But death will come, and the dust
that has already caked over my exuberance
will not be queen.
I will ride again unchanged, but this time
at sunrise, upon my beautiful horse, without
bridal and chain. I will regain mastery, pound at
the hot grass, at this constant edge -
I believe in the portion that
dies underground but lives
like a dream only in the
For me it gave the great request,
gave the last ring for my finger.
I wear the seed but never
the bloom. I am the false train
at the station. My blood bleeds
its impurities and runs
like floodwaters over the city.
For now, at a standstill.
For now, half-whole -
a miniature of all I was supposed to be.
In this place I must accept
or die so much before my time.
In this place where wonder
is not enough, but is
itself a blessing.
If I could wish the cat well, life
beside my father’s grave,
then as October nears
and the worms go underground,
I could bathe in my favourite season,
happy as I’ll every get,
change the rusty orange of my essence
and shed the density of summer.
If I could wish my children healed of their afflictions,
my husband, complete in his calling
and our empty cooking pot finally appeased,
then I could fall without shifting
the position of my bones,
I could be with a warm coat on, walking briskly
in a purifying seasonal breeze.
Allison Grayhurst is a member of the League of Canadian Poets. Three times nominated for Sundress Publications “Best of the Net” 2015, she has over 950 poems published in over 400 international journals. She has twelve published books of poetry, seven collections, nine chapbooks, and a chapbook pending publication. She lives in Toronto with her family. She is a vegan. She also sculpts, working with clay; www.allisongrayhurst.com
Image courtesy of PEXELS