You look straight at my belly.
You smile from your treasury of quirky
eyebrows and ears. Someone
will ask where he got those from,
and why some days he yearns for the sea
and others is drunk on the smell of turned soil
and yet another day can’t get enough
of the morning reek of cities,
the smoke and fresh bread,
markets, perfume and sweat.
And one day maybe a sharp
pectoral pain, or bloody urine,
or lungs declining the air
and singing a swan song
convince him you passed on
the seed of his particular dying.
© Margaret Morgan 2004
In bars 14-15 of Ancestor 1 there is a lively example of how different lines of text are brought together simultaneously between the two choirs.