The book breathes through layers of dust,
traces of fingers that flipped the pages disappear
like a voice lost in the storm. Dead can speak
in a million ways – in the rustle of the robe put out to dry,
in the spout of kettle molded with layers of memories.
Darkness settles as I bend over the left-over
soup caked dry in a pot gone cold; I scratch
from the run-over yard seeds that I will grow in alien soil,
in climates strange and unfamiliar. Against that azure sky
I will hold glass beads, see prismatic splinters of years
in the house that has fallen away brick by brick. Dust settles
in cracks between fingers as I mould shapes out of absences,
conjure faces whose contours I trace on my person –
in the mole below the thigh, in the colour of eyes –
passage of remembrance that midwifes pain and exultation.