Even if you could walk through the corridors
of your body, you would not know which rooms
to enter, which were full of stone. Inside you
there is so much water – a mountain range
in the north to stave off invaders, a desert
in the bacterial colonies of the south. Here
are city buildings, yellowed, without windows,
busy with the making of vaccines and handbags.
Here a double helix strung up the length
of your spine like a flurry of Tibetan prayer flags.
Between these outposts the messengers dart,
carrying tubes of animal hide, pigeons on their backs.
Some ride rams, some travel with consort shadows
in chariots across the skies without once stopping
to look at stars. When they arrive it is almost always
the same. They must remove their sandals and wait
by the mouth of the cave – its fold of skin,
a curtain to trap the wind. They want to tell
you the great fires are still burning, the bees
won’t give up their unions, the harvest is both
moon and autumn. You are not alone.
Photograph © Rookuzz..