To lie with luck again
in the vital centre
where faith is had
like water – necessary and
To speak to the familiar morning
in my own tongue that I learned
from solitude and watching squirrels.
To step on the back of a scorpion,
not feeling its tail writhe and crush.
To hold a nickel in my hand
and let it be enough.
To walk on tall grass and leave
To not be the fig tree holding back
my bloom, or look on others as poison to my tastebuds
or as a slingshot to the singing lark.
To dance as a child, unaware
of the mirror, catching on fire
like a deer in powerful flight.
Copyright © 2000 by Allison Grayhurst
Source: To Lie With Luck Again