A poem by Allison Grayhurst

A moody afterglow – the error of thoughts, hopeless
when it comes to laughter and the power of worship.
On the table there are self-deeds, failed
revelations, kneading and prying wide a soul
that doesn’t want to be recognized. I want you
to allow me this success, to find the flavour of your eyes,
shape them with tools and my thumbs, to press the flat
hard edges of my palms against your cheekbones, press and
form the cause of your pride, your loneliness that seems so
important to maintain. Curled toes and chins, your chin
is becoming, shifting from strong to soft. You are neither
masculine nor feminine. You are privileged – to be so
beautiful and uncommitted to a single way of looking. Look.
Your hair – long or cut off? In real life, there is no
perfect symmetry. You are bold, accurate –
your nose and the lines around your mouth are my contemplation.
Let me know you. Be courageous.
Let me pry, split and mould your inner
workings until they are as clear (for both of us)
as love.