OPENINGS
In my chest a rusted metal door
is creaking open,
the door of a decompression chamber
cranked up on barnacled chains.
The rush of air hurts and hurts
as larks fly
in and out,
in and out
between my bended ribs.
--Moya Cannon
STILL LIFE
Much though we love best
those intersections of time and space
where we are love's playthings,
a sweet anonymity of flesh --
life's blessed rhythm
loving itself through us,
two human bodies tuned
to the whirring stars --
this is almost nothing
without the small, quotidian gifts,
habitual caresses which hinder fears,
the grace of small services rendered --
two bowls of blueberries and yoghurt,
two cups of coffee,
two spoons,
laid out on a wooden table
in October sunlight.
--Moya Cannon
-- from Moya Cannon's Hands,
Carcanet Press Limited,
Manchester, UK, 2011
