Plastered with glue,
sticking like betrayal like a spider's egg sack
to a branch. I watch your gorgeous
pontificating, watch you mourn just a little. The injury
rips only part of your body, fragments you. Grief becomes a tremor,
an uncontrolled twitch under your left eye.

Everyday, I journey to the drug mart, handle
bread and vitamins in the same hour, thinking of your music,
showered by these harmonic intonations of your irate loneliness.
I will never get clean. I knock down garbage bags, pocket unsharpened pencils,
buy myself some tea, thinking today I will let go,
rid myself of your domination, purchase a splendid fantasy to replace
your magnetism - saw at roots, trust the broken staircase and climb.

You have been kind, when your thumb strokes the back of my neck or
when you let laughter escape from your stoic eyes. Money
has never been my brimstone or firewood - there or not there, but always
with the fragrance of just-skinned leather. So you see, that
is not what I want you for.

But I do want, and not just a portion of your stamina,
not just a gasp of deep disturbance, but to be at the vortex
of your desire, the one you rely on to rebuild your toy train set.

It is too much, picking up shampoo bottles, looking at lipstick. I know
it is too much - these yearnings that beat
and these necessities I need are the same, but you

are still in my mind
pushing, plowing through and through,
saving me a plot beside your plot
beside the potpourri covering a stranger's grave.

Allison Grayhurst


Archived 07/02/2012