NOW When will it be? The white bird says now, the backyard sleepers, eaters, say now and the souls that left and the souls that arrived are deep in the immediacy of an overpowering change that will guide the current into the sea, a coral reef barrier prosperity a summer like a summer never before -- blessed, pulsing with an infant eternal song, glorifying the dissolving shapes, the empty spaces now made complimentary, now made into a rippling harmony singing. When will it be? It is, says the voice. Close your eyes. Open them and see. INHERITANCE The end is almost here, rises like a blessing like a storm, demanding my commitment, to go inside, hide and pray. The end overthrows the engrained pattern, arrests the spread of illness and holds the future like a tiny turtle in an egg, struggling out of its shell. The end is an escape route, a mind losing consciousness, asking to be caught before the body lands on unpolished concrete floors, deprived of a buffer, asking for a soft act of grace, holding, a reminder that love exists even under the executioner’s hood. The end is happening like forgiveness happens, a miracle stronger than duty and grief, strongest of all efforts -- a clean slate, consolidating each action, blanketing over every direction to and away from home. REFORMATION I am tackling my circumstances void of myth or the fallacy of wishes. I am trying to see straight even if I must murder my own liberty, harpoon my freedom and go under. I am not sure what capacity I am asked to carry. I see the escape road but I cannot take the road if it leaves my loved ones in jeopardy -- parachute strings cut, plane door open at high altitude. So I must go back, bend over, pick up sticks, stones, ache all over, unable to sleep or find a resting position without pain. Unless the gift of mercy comes, soon, today, supplies unload, compassion arrives and strips me of this brutal incremental starvation and I can stand as I stand today, unencumbered by the load, unashamed of my joy -- no void of debt and doom slicing through my budding strength. If the gift comes it will come as grace, undeserved but a fact of God’s great glory, my house will be furnished and the way forward will be cleared, blessed, at last and finally certain.
Allison Grayhurst has more than 1300 poems published in over 500 journals, and 25 poetry books. She lives in Toronto.
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