Is it true that we become alive
not once, but many times? - Edwin Morgan
As your body proves its shift
in a dust of hair, a grain of skin,
in the once-only visitation
to the coffin
you might be new,
not human, not sleek velvet lining,
not dirt and footsteps
on your eternal lawn
but a bright amalgamation.
Before that, however you went:
part haemorrhage, part lung disease,
part broken heart, part syringe;
that contract, the final musics of hearing,
those last minute considerations,
the ultimate reminisce of brain activity
leave you altered.
How people speak about you –
how you speak about you –
how you are known –
are sands and metal filings,
separate but inseparable.
On the way to school
your soul bends.
On the road to work
your head bends.
On love you bend.
Awhile since you were conceived
a life worth living, since cock and heat:
a playground song, rasped knuckles,
conkers cracked, a gentle touch,
a stark word or kind hush -
the repeatedly repeated and the new
are your jigsaw on the carpet.
Quick dash – spermatozoa quick, hormonal quick,
love quick - chances are you’ll be one
in six hundred million (though half decided);
this is where life ends and begins,
where we join and become alive
not once, but many times.
