Sample Poems by Allison Creighton

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God of Rain

You didn't know what was haunting you.
You were always last, the stranger
whose skin was erupting,
whose skin was never touched.

You were always waiting for rain.
You liked the way it came sometimes,
those moments before the storm,
how the air filled with a heavy stillness.

You felt the rain inside you-
the weight of it,
the pressure mounting,
all its sullen gray beauty.

You asked if I saw any beauty in you.
I told you that I did,
how I'd tried hard to hold it.
But I couldn't calm your flurry of visions,
the voices in your head
you wanted me to hear.

So I turned from your calls after dark
and you imagined a companion who emerged
whenever the rain came at night-
someone who moved
through the shadows of your gloom

into your reign of silver light.

---

Back to Copper Mountain

We took the earliest lift each morning
for first tracks in the snow-
the suspension in air, sitting next to you,
almost better than the twisting run down.

All the way up the mountain
you shared your wanderlust dreams,
to travel the earth, and over again-
you never spoke of a companion.

Just after we'd chosen the course
you were nearly out of sight,
and I'd set off, trying
to match your perilous speed.
I wanted to overtake you,
if only for a moment.

I remember wanting to fly
as you knew how to fly, yet
praying to be bound at your side,
frightened still,
of too many paths,
of crashing headfirst
into the pines that grow
near the sharp angles down.

Back at the cabin one evening,
we built a fire.
I awakened past midnight,
locked in your arms.
I stayed awake
just to feel the warmth
of your body touching mine,
until I fell into
the rhythm of your breathing,
and once more to sleep,
where I chased your dreams
back into dawn,
and back again
to the mountain's edge.

---

City of Glass

Each morning the city shines,
becomes new again, can see
past every door, people waking
in rooms so bright they steal sight.

Pink impatiens grows on a stark kitchen sill.
A crimson scarf is pulled from a shelf.
Outside you walk the first avenue.
There is no memory of blood.

Buildings reach higher than before.
They mirror the cars' steel wheels,
the weight of each branch,
every stranger's silhouette,
the slender hands of the clock tower
sputtering seconds.

Your reflection is cracking by noon.
You can't escape the image of your face
as the city starts to break.

You walk streets of fallen signs,
bewildered webs of glass.
At dusk come the windblown cries of sirens.
Bare feet bleed their way home.

At dawn, windows open and faces appear.
Pink impatiens grows on a stark kitchen sill.
A crimson scarf is pulled from a shelf.

Outside you walk the first avenue.
There is no memory of blood.
You see clear across the city,
silent and shining.

---

Before the Fall

We were wishing for a longer night
than what was in our hands.
The pictures glowed
above us in the dark,
saying:
Come back with us to the day
when we were
as you are-
before we were invisible.

We were also
full of time and summer
in our green rush of youth.
And if you listen as you lie
on your woolen-spun rug
lit with autumn's amber
and the emerald weave
of spring,
you'll hear our breath
in your breath,
you'll feel us as you move,
and you'll know the end you fear.

Feel us overtake you.
Your breath is ours now,
not yours.

You only disappear-

---

Inside the Corner Room

She sits at a wooden table
with her blue midnight pen
in a silent room with one window.
A red candle to coax her confessions.
A hard bed to keep her from sleep.

She sees herself-a stranger,
in the mirror by the door.
There is an empty basket
on the floor beside the bed.
A tarnished silver thimble.

She reaches out, presses her palm
flat against the pane-
leans closer
and stares through the fog
of her breath upon the glass.

There is a storm quickening
on the outside of her room.
Lightning brightens each corner.
At last comes the thunder,
the water pouring down.