After Rachel Mann’s ‘Mappa Mundi’.
This is where the lights dim, the screen broadens;
a manifestation of rigour ardent, passion melted
into the superficiality of dream.
This is where your fingers graze as thoughts dally
remembering nights where the sand and sea met,
on hushed lips fused.
This is where the corpse recalls lost flesh,
gathers vein, membrane, the frayed fibre of bone
the men in white cut through, walk in
and hide from us, forming armies between
our fingers and bodies,
nolite te bastardes carborundorum:
yet with sharpened steel they’ve made it in
and you haven’t,
a story (some lies?) etched in skin.