Thursday, November 26, 2015

Allison Grayhurst writes

Empty drawer
I can’t speak it 
it burns, melts 
down my throat, 
riddling my stomach lining. 
I can’t smell the wet 
wooden fences, touch 
what glistens naturally, 
transient and pure. 
Running from the socializers, 
the money makers, money believers, ignorant 
of death and of the weight of love. 
I can’t stand in my special place, 
domed by a protective layer of faith  
and the muscle tissues of maniac grace.  
I want to leave this war in which 
what I say has no say, where I am pinned  
to the gravel, spoke 
wheels of the worldly controllers 
rolling over my flesh and spine. Is there 
mercy? Is there anything  
open? Oxygen? Validation? 
Is there anyone to talk to? 
I would talk but I can’t speak 
or move forward from this death trap. 
In my mind, confinement abounds. 
Blood letting, leach getting, plastered 
to every underside of skin. 
When will it be gone? 
Will I be gone, clear of this 
disability? Bicycle 
riding, riding twisted garden paths. 
Smile here, nod there at all the people in human clothes. 
I am grey as my namesake, as a cluster of lackluster trees. 
There is nowhere for me, nothing  
I can understand.

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