Gris-Gris, an online journal of literature, culture & the arts

It Is Not

by Allison Grayhurst


It is not the hole in the wall I fear

where the ants crawl through

or the red tail in the wind

that keeps me here,

but it is the leaf over the grave stone

and the cat on the small hill

without a hope of going up any further

that helps me stretch my limbs

and appoint myself a possible beginning.

It is what I hold out for when the

seasonal scent comes near, when I am not willing to endure

the effort. Then

I am failing

and always waiting for

the unexpected answer to arrive

in strange dosages

to arrive gentle to the touch,

however minuscule, arriving

however obscure.