(a poem written to mark the launch of Amnesty International's Anti-Torture Campaign)
The light makes a river of the scars on your back.
I trace it from source to sea. It spills
off my page into silence, from the mouth into salt bitterness
of tears, beyond comfort of song or poem.
The light makes a river of the scars on your back.
I trace its length from neck to hip, its silken touch,
its pearly loveliness, its dream of shallows,
its song of pools, its memory of curlew
and nightingale, of heron and grebe.
The light makes a river of the scars on your back.
I walk the banks of it and pick for your pleasure
a posy of wildflowers, the smell of their names,
angelica, chamomile, calendula, and other vulneraries
with their balms and their powers, their beautiful petals
to soothe and to rescue, to help with the pain.
The light makes a river of the scars on your back
and though love can help with the healing
in the quiet and peace of the afterwards:
love did not stop them from cutting out your tongue;
love did not stop them from cutting off your ears;
love did not stop them from cutting out your eyes.
I trace the river the length of your back
to its source in a room, in a house, in a street
not unlike this one. A man is closing
the shutters on the light of morning. The same
light everywhere we rise to and greet.
He unbuttons his cuffs and rolls up his sleeves.
He is ready for work. So much to be done.