Tissue

Tissue
Tishani Doshi

‘Even if you could walk through the corridors / of your body, you would not know which rooms / to enter, which were full of stone.’

Even if you could walk through the corridors
of your body, you would not know which rooms
to enter, which were full of stone. 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. Here a double helix strung up the length
of your spine like a flurry of Tibetan prayer flags. 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. When they arrive it is almost always
the same. Here
are city buildings, yellowed, without windows,
busy with the making of vaccines and handbags. Between these outposts the messengers dart,
carrying tubes of animal hide, pigeons on their backs.  
 
Photograph © Rookuzz.. They must remove their sandals and wait
by the mouth of the cave – its fold of skin,
a curtain to trap the wind. You are not alone. Some ride rams, some travel with consort shadows
in chariots across the skies without once stopping
to look at stars.