No Ground

Allison Grayhurst


No Ground


There are no leftovers,

no cylinder funnel to collect

and preserve extravagant prayers.

In this place, I lean but I dare not cry –

a rosebush past its prime, brittle in the sun.

I am collapsing, out loud, 

reforming every cell, painful alterations. My God

of fluid, my God, grand as, and grander than, myth –

I have cut through this horizon. I have cut

through my thick interior, and still, I’m tilting

like an old tree

unable to stand. My God,

breathe into me, make plans for my soul or let me die,

bound in this circle. My God, rain into my reservoir –

it feels so long

since I have been untethered.

There are other worlds. There is Jupiter.

My God, please repair this punctured deck

or throw me overboard.

Fill me, my God, with love,

strong enough to override the weight of this

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