by Allison Grayhurst
Filled with a something
that lifts his heavy chin.
Filled with the silence of woods,
with a perpetual moon in a perpetual
night, with the bones of small creatures
and other luckless prey.
Born of strong sorrow, stronger than pride
or a mouth open for song, he is
my lover rocking in the shade, he is
a forward marching on yellow autumn grass,
he is flying over stones and fog, over
the sigh of doom, falling into a gracious depth.
He is looking where the light never goes, into the eyes
of a subliminal cry.
He is a quick moving cat moving across a
barn’s black roof. He is my umbrella,
my need and my deliverance.