| (page 50 of 93) Turnstile Poem by Allison Grayhurst |
Turnstile Poem by Allison Grayhurst (page 50 of 93) |
Keywords: eleventh transmission, poetry, fiction, photography, visual art, spoken word, film, socially engaged,
political, human experience, writing, satire, photojournalism, activist art, activism, socially conscious, art
Turnstile
by Allison Grayhurst
Plain as the impersonal sun,
the burden breaks the space
between my neck and shoulders,
halts the cool breeze and places
at my feet a nest of highly intelligent ants.
I am not walking, but standing on one foot
and I have been here for so long. I am not saying
I have not felt the love, the gifts, the undeniable
kindness of God, but my blood has thickened
and runs like lava beneath my summer’s cloak.
It is like one expression stapled to a frame to the wall.
I look, I see, but still I cannot change its meaning.
If I am caught in a slumber I cannot behold . . .
If I am not free of the fear that clips me to this intolerable edge . . .
then let the wind rip the skin from my skull and expose
the larvae festering beneath – let me see so the weight
will lighten for good and the pain that’s lodged in my throat
will loosen and go the way of dead misfortune.
I only want to know a new way of surviving,
of riding the pattern of my stars.
Next: More poetry by Allison Grayhurst.
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