The Storm That Saves
So he lives,
watching himself bemused in the mirror.
He lives his life with flying
pine needles and emaciated toads.
He wants to surprise the careful one
who guards against letting go.
He wants to fall at the heels of morning, dive
from branches into the open mouths of children
first learning the meaning of “mine”. He is willing
to wrap himself in snake skin, dip his
features in tar, anything to reach
within a scalp and raise perception from
its daily doings.
He is the grave digger, the bee in need of a flower.
He is the body’s sex, the yearning
engraved upon each bone,
a doorway in the tenebrous, compelling unknown.
Copyright © 1998 by Allison Grayhurst
First published in “Chicago Record Magazine” March 2017
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