Allison Grayhurst writes

 In League With . . .

Drive away the battle-weary heart 

as the guilt rises like smoke from a cigarette 

into a spring afternoon. 

It has ended as bones do with time 

in earth, cold, as the last maggot clings. 

And pride has expanded your belt 

as though it were a fetus, growing, demanding 

the best of your nourishment. 

Carry this on the knee of your cracked imagination 

and dispense with your volumes of hurt 

done to you by so many hands. 

For your tune is repeating and still your country grows. 

Candles and candles to keep alit so your enterprise 

of bitterness is warm with stirring. 

My eye has overlooked, 

and sometimes I ruin my joy 

by taking a step on your tiles 

so tormented and full of useless fury. 

Golden is the calling we were given 

but life-determining is the way we sway or twist 

to answer it. 

(And night is not the end.)