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.
Copyright © Persea Books 2015
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on behalf of Persea Books.