The mutual condition
of our heritage. The thump-thump
in your thigh. Thin as a warrior
of Japanese fortune and eyes
rustling like wool in the wind.
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| Deep Poems about time |
and the movement of your housecoat is my water.
I found a necklace
centuries old.
You told me you were not ready
to paint the autumn gardens or do cartwheels
over a cliff. The hope that bled
from your belly, and the seas
of men's and women's breasts that
you floated through, like Adam awakened
from paradise, hungering for that one, strong connection,
was like me in the winters of my adolescent youth,
was the India I never visited or the Russian squares
I buried my imagination in.
I am red as cinnamon candy, hoping you'll have me
like the first day our hands joined and the bells of trinity sang
a melody to finally, resolutely live for.
The Voice That Calls To Me
The voice that calls me to the dazzling edge
is the voice I heard when still in hunger,
deep in donut shops, in cigarettes and unbleached sorrow.
The voice that calls me, comes again,
bursting in my belly, digging a hole
through all my prayers, comes
like an elephant, intelligent and crushing
my marrow with its grey mass.
The voice that calls me, I know
like I know certain streets of this city,
dressed in melancholic remembrances,
shedding their newness to rekindle those
unhappy, yet coveted years.
The voice that calls me beats on my limbs
like hail. As if holding my head between clammy palms,
it holds my thoughts in old habit, in damp, penetrating gloom.
I begin this time
hearing its vinegar scream inside.
It drips like cold gravy down my spine
down, between shoulder-blades, down
covering the small of my back.
The voice that calls me, I hear rise
from the gutter of my past.
I let it come and go. For though
here and hooked to my mind, it is only
the passing of a cloud, only
a long-told story, a coming-back before
moving on.
Both these poems have been originally written by Toronto based poet Allison Grayhurst.
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