by Diane Fahey

Diane Fahey

Could one surprise a room,
fling open a door to discover
some unknown mood of silence,
or, in the air, a busyness
one could not quite read —
memories stored in brick flesh
seeping back into space
to be sparked by sunlight
into a sky of milling planets?
Cells shed from tired skin
settle in lesions, joins,
enter wood's susceptibility,
so that body and mind, both,
leave their trace, in a chemistry
that brings tremulous pain
and the brute years, to a stillness.
Even when we breathe elsewhere,
the work is being done,
our elements sift into solidity,
are resurrected as masonry
shifts and white clouds rise
and you cannot see for looking:
the atmosphere of a room
re-entering your skin, your blood —
life recognising itself amidst
dissolution; as foundations stir;
when diamond-blades of light
pierce through and through
what one thought void, done with.

The body in time

Last updated January 14, 2019