Consider it a blessing. To be returned to the arms
of no pressure, of cat bothering and grocery shopping.
Prozac without the side effects: let the cold
comfort shake you down. Be without
the call, the vague reaching for right
—almost perfection. Let it go.
You might be illicit. Wholly.
No one would notice if you just
relinquished it. What is the world
without the hope of the coil and spring?
The blithe weft through
the great loom? We already know
what it looks like. We live in it.
Angels got used to iron
and forgot their drink, what came up
through the earth from the deepest well.
Look at this scar—take a good look.
You think it might be a wing?
The story starts again.
Quietly into this dark night,
pick up the thread,
and tell no one.
Allyson Shaw lives on the northeast coast of Scotland. She has work in Witness and Monster Verse in the Everyman’s Pocket Poet series, as well as forthcoming in Fiddler’s Green and Sycorax. She is a metalsmith by trade. You can find more of her written work at https://www.patreon.com/Allysonshaw.