Poetry
Sanguine
by Allison Grayhurst
One small awakening to accept
acceptance - a lethargic arm on my shoulder
weighing down. Air that is security has never been my ocean.
I have never been able to trigger kinships in a field of sunlight. No light
has more volume. I am content in places where my imagination can reign,
where definition is arbitrary, redundant, and not very useful.
I tried to love you, dive into your trachea, show
you the substance that enriches my cells. But we have
different vocations: I make windows. And you stand outside
with your scales of distraction, participating, socially at ease.
You have grown tall, wedded as you are to the world’s expectations.
What once was lean, marvellously eccentric, has become typical, robust
as an animated ideal. You gave up your awkward insecurities, replaced them
with suave affection and loveless sex. You are not warm,
though you feign warmth. You know how to act - teeth set in alignment,
and your apparel - clean of cat hairs, with the appropriate amount of ingenuity,
just enough to generate interest but not alarm.
Old people are getting older and dying, they can hardly believe
it has come down to this. They lose their lovers, have appendages
aching with weakness - fingers that cannot move on cue to stroke a cheek,
fingers that want to flesh out, plump up, become tantalizing again.
I have taken you with my fingers, awakening the soft space between
your naval and groin. I have laid across, massaged every ounce of need
into the vulnerable region separating your hipbones. And I would go further.
But you have no natural shade,
and it is too exhausting to keep toting around your wears.
You supplied me with inspiration. The postage is paid.
I must move closer to the edge of the road for you. I must make room,
walk past, surpass, enter
my Rosewood red front door, without.
Sanguine
by Allison Grayhurst
One small awakening to accept
acceptance - a lethargic arm on my shoulder
weighing down. Air that is security has never been my ocean.
I have never been able to trigger kinships in a field of sunlight. No light
has more volume. I am content in places where my imagination can reign,
where definition is arbitrary, redundant, and not very useful.
I tried to love you, dive into your trachea, show
you the substance that enriches my cells. But we have
different vocations: I make windows. And you stand outside
with your scales of distraction, participating, socially at ease.
You have grown tall, wedded as you are to the world’s expectations.
What once was lean, marvellously eccentric, has become typical, robust
as an animated ideal. You gave up your awkward insecurities, replaced them
with suave affection and loveless sex. You are not warm,
though you feign warmth. You know how to act - teeth set in alignment,
and your apparel - clean of cat hairs, with the appropriate amount of ingenuity,
just enough to generate interest but not alarm.
Old people are getting older and dying, they can hardly believe
it has come down to this. They lose their lovers, have appendages
aching with weakness - fingers that cannot move on cue to stroke a cheek,
fingers that want to flesh out, plump up, become tantalizing again.
I have taken you with my fingers, awakening the soft space between
your naval and groin. I have laid across, massaged every ounce of need
into the vulnerable region separating your hipbones. And I would go further.
But you have no natural shade,
and it is too exhausting to keep toting around your wears.
You supplied me with inspiration. The postage is paid.
I must move closer to the edge of the road for you. I must make room,
walk past, surpass, enter
my Rosewood red front door, without.
Affiliates
Friends
Support this
magazine.
magazine.
