Allison Grayhurst




Your welcome mat is removed.

Take your cold, determined blasphemy

and seal yourself in your tomb.

Take the memory she had of your loveliness

and mutilate it, mutate it into your true face –

a hundred still births, lined up with all eyes open, dead,

before even beginning.

Take the grain from her garden. Take her cat while

she is sleeping. You can take

and trade her trust

to pay homage to your psychological sickness,

but you cannot take

the strength from her star, not the creativity that lulls

then sparks on her breath. You cannot take her rhythm,

her house where love and God come first,

where there is no deception,

no blood on the sleeves. You cannot take her beauty,

not her vow to stay open

to future blessings. You cannot take

the way she is committed to make good with her grief,

committed to…

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