Carrying little, wearing a weak
headlamp, a mile in, stumbling
and wet, the cave walls
like my own insides and I an animal
painted there. Darkness
filling in my cartoon lines, my blank self.
I am inside a hole
in the earth, with pots
of ochre and ash. My offerings—
your hair, the print of my hand.
from Red DeerFind it in the library
Copyright © Persea Books 2015
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, Inc.
on behalf of Persea Books.