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In Ink

Alexandra Munro

Our beat and all the textures of our skin
belong to us more than anything we own
but we own many things. It’s strange
how much they look like us. In ink, I can see
who I am and what bits of me belong,
clipped raven black, in ink.
The dark tide sneaks up, whispering a promise
to last forever, to own minutes, to feel their fibres,
to follow the needle, to follow

and make the shapes we can’t learn
without each other. The ink might fade
but too much else changes and I need to know
I have roots that hold me to now.
There is other ink in octopi
who defend when threatened by blushing black ink
and make sculptures of smoke lasting seconds.
So that life can outlive it.
Our ink will outlive us, as if it created us.


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