We are rolls
of warm wax
spinning
in the hull
of sulphur lamps,
shifts in the
cloud cover,
light matter
passing through
us and beneath;
experience etched
to the body
in muscular spots
where language
won't go.
The groan of my wife
woke the cells
who remembered
the groan;
silent for years
in the cochlear curl.
Not an animal
sound but
human, the way
so few sounds
are human.
The clench within
between two
sets of muscle:
one very small,
the other the strongest
ever to visit a human:
the long, concrete
squeeze of the womb
against a matchstick kick;
and at the other end
of the phone line
a midwife
with her foot on the pedal.
KM Skagen
Trondheim, 24/11-05
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