Allison Grayhurst





Again it came like hari-kari,

twisting my innards on its holy blade.

It came at 4 am, into my lungs and brain,

like a new death-rattle sounding

an old, familiar fate.

It came under the blankets like a scorpion

between my husband and I, touched me

with its tail then raised its head to my eyes.

It unchained my killer-hand, bent my tree

until it broke. It found me in the violence,

in the night of unconscious beginnings and

jealousy too brutal to be controlled.

It plucked my morals one by one, like plucking

a cat of its whiskers. It turned

me into a nameless creature, into a betrayed

and raging deformity of myself. It came

like scissors to a flower, like an axe

to a pig’s straining neck. It came

from where, I do not know, but came again

as though portraying something within


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