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Allison Grayhurst


The days are changing
and so is the reliable reflection
I looked upon under scrutiny
for a decade-and-a-half.
Gone is the waste bin of logical stress
and the appetite that never found its proper food.
Here is the chair I kneel upon
looking beyond to an inspired view.
The dream is coming like all great things come
with a handful of sand that must
be chewed, ingested and joined
to the bloodstream.
The days are changing, the old is disappearing
like dew evaporating
in the hot rising noon.


The day is like
the day before
the worm arrived
in a jar at my doorstep.
Like before I took the worm in
and fed it lettuce leaves and fresh water.
Like before I had something to care for,
when loneliness was the largest difficulty around
and isolation pounded beneath my lids like
a cancer.
The day is tick tock and as slow as waiting
for that needed check to arrive.
I collect the noises from outside
but have nowhere to put them. I open my mouth,
but my voice has gone underground.
The sun looks in on me, but evades my skin.
I don’t hold my breath. I let it in and out.
I let the day be a blank wall.
And sometimes a day like today is like
an empty room and this empty room
is a treasure.

Allison Grayhurst is a 44 year old woman. Over the past twenty years her poems have been published in journals throughout the United States, Canada, and in the United Kingdom. Her book Somewhere Falling was published by Beach Holme Publishers, a Porcepic Book. She has two children, two cats, and a dog, and lives in Toronto with her husband. She also sculpts, working with clay.