Meridith Allison

I’ve retreated from the world,
from the fractious unfolding of things,
and set my sights instead on all that is,
or ever was, or ever will be–

these motes of dust suspended in the morning light,
and the crumbs behind the toaster,
dog hair on the floor,
chaos at home as it is in the heavens.

The nerve to think I might prevail!
Even so–

I scour the sinks, wash the windows,
wipe baseboards and blinds.
I clean the top of the fridge, behind the books,
the grout, the filters, the fans.

Meanwhile the cat stretches in the slanting sun.
Meanwhile shadows climb the wall.
And still I am restless
as the night slips in.

But the moon has a certain gravity that’s hard to resist.
It draws me out and I move through the yard,
gathering fallen limbs for a small fire,
a quiet apology, a pyre, I think, for the order of things.

Forgive me for not answering the phone.
I was adrift in the cosmos when you called,
my body stretched in the wild, damp clover,
my gaze fixed in the perfect spill of stars.

Meridith Allison lives on the edge of the Gila Wilderness in southwestern New Mexico with her family. She writes often, finishes pieces occasionally, and shares her work rarely—usually only when her brother, who happens to be an editor on this project, insists. She’s very fond of walking and of her little dog, Boo.

This poem appeared in What We Hold On To: Poems of Coping, Connection, and Carrying On — Winter 2026, published by The Chaos Section Poetry Project. We’ll be featuring each poem from the collection individually in the weeks ahead. You can read the full collection or download a free PDF of the chapbook here.