Hearing you out
by Simon Armitage

You were fighting fit, A1 and OK.
When they quizzed your eye with the beam
of a torch, somebody beamed back.
You played them your kettle-drum heart.

Your skin thrilled at the touch of a cold pen,
your tongue squirmed at the taste
of lemon and lime. Tapped on the knee
you kicked like a horse. You were fine.

Your nose drew the genie of crystallized salt
from its bottled sleep, the mirror
in front of your mouth was rainy with breath.
You were a picture of health.

But the wanted a final, personal proof.
So the cavers went in through the ear,
got so far, called into the space beyond.
In front were other worlds:

viaducts of bone; sea-gardens of coral
in full bloom; lunar canals; the escapement
of thought, coiled and sprung; the whirl
of a time-tunnel, spiralling into the core.

They could only turn back, or wait.
Then a voice came out of the black,
from a secret place under the eaves of the brain,
answering back, crying your own name.