THE FROGMORE POETRY PRIZE 2011

Sharon Black

FIBONACCI PONDERS THE ORIGIN OF LIFE

The question spirals down his throat

and lodges in his ribcage.

It is conch; a flowering artichoke;
a cochlea that hears only pulse.

It speaks a hollow, seaborne dialect. It speaks
of gases compressing, of stars
seeding like sunflowers, of the origin of salt.

It speaks of the trails of ancestors
dragging themselves from the surf;
a shedding of fins, scales, monocular vision.
The question turns again
and hooks in deep.

As he wanders the cathedral gardens of Pisa
he sees it in everything.
The tower straining for it. He feels
its pressure when he inhales:
a bruise, a colour breathing into life,
the small ache of coming
back to himself
while spinning further away.


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