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in the free 2015 PDF file chapbook:

No Raft —
No Ocean

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title text to download the free PDF file)
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Structures I pretend to own

Allison Grayhurst

Organs flayed
Nightmares understood
                God is a scientist, a retina with constricted veins,
dictating an obituary with every birth.
Circular spots; ink-stains, light-stains . . .
there are so many preconceptions I need to let go of.
I must grasp that rationality and chaos both
are immature theories, primitive understandings.
Nothing can be drawn to scale. Inside the void,
it is fizzing, being expelled then absorbed with
a brief division and then a brief collision - beautiful osmosis.
I saw a strawberry swallowed,
progress from being a fruit to being
a taste-bud treasure. I was engulfed in vastness,
cultivating a pattern.
But there is no pattern, though there is geometry, formula,
and muscles functioning by invariable laws.
                God loves most things with a sense of humour,
with an unexpected discharge. Energy cannot be
damaged, but it can pulse too quickly,
get caught in a tachycardia loop, be confined to a fixed pathway
like a spasm, repeating, stagnant in its activity. That is not love.
It leads to heart failure, lacking
arousal, inflammation, surprise. That is a condition where
sludge is formed and purity is suffocated, and all and all
it is not very crisp. The result is not creation,
movement only, not breathing.
                I know I am not meant to hear the angels flutter,
but I hear them anyways. Some nights
they enjoy a quick wing-shudder, jettisoning
in and out of phase. On my sloping rooftop,
near my bedroom window,
they say to me: pregnancy demands a gentle cultivation,
a willingness for a foreign inclusion.
They say: do not look for equilibrium because exact balance
would mean obliteration.



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