by Allison Grayhurst
devoured my hair
and my rosebush awoke
to the parable of the diseased snail.
Then one afternoon, when sleep
was my steady horse, my curtains
were lifted by the waters of God and I sang
in the light, my name altered forevermore.
I remember weeping the dirt from my pores, then gaining
the peace no guilt could void.
I remember how I tore off the leather jacket that I wore
to protect me from true expression.
There was a church across the road I would watch
as its bricks grew gravely and old. I would
pray for baby birds and animals at 3 AM, learning
to be free with this new-found love.
The seasons climbed, and from a beautiful joining,
a child was born.
From that child, an era of music and warm windows.
Once the hunger ceased and the inviting horror
dried up like a fallen leaf –
life became for me and my love like a paper airplane held
in the hands of that wondrous child.