Poetry Magazines - The best collection of poetry magazines online - Simon Armitage

When I was a loaf of bones, dried out
and forgotten in the puckered desert,
she told the mountains that I was alive.
Gathering my bones like loose fruit -
sure she had all those precious seeds -
she carried me in her arms back to her cave.

My eye socket saw that dim heaven
like a star that one can’t find a second time.
When my last limb was set down I shone
like a white carving in front of a breathless fire.
La Loba raised her small arms and sang softly.
The sage burned stronger. I felt my bones

swell like a river as the flesh began to spread
over them, along the belly and lips, rippling
on my spine, softly, above the dust.
And the touch of it, amazed - hand on hip,
both touch and thought as I felt my body stretch.
The old woman sang louder and I saw colours,

a glowing orange or a black cinder, a tongue
that leapt above me and said, This is passion,
red as a heart. My hands reached upwards,
as if towards a heaven sensed in the air.
Louder and louder the music moved me
and swept through my lungs like a wish.

I rose from the bald dust with a memory.
Still I heard the song but saw no-one
only my still legs and white arms. Looking up,
I saw the song float like smoke above me.
It chanted so deeply, as if the earth had sighed.
Wrapping my arms around my body I opened

my mouth as the sound moved closer.
It sang to my breath and it sang to my hips,
breaking over me like a host of prayers.
And as it came in luminous bursts
through the desert, from death,
I heard it was coming from my mouth.