"The Bison's Mouth"
Many men have worn away
this gut of rock, a pocket
thick as a leg pressed
into the arch of a man’s back.
Greasy limestone for its tongue,
the bubbling rock like yellow fat -
a kill weeping on the cave floor.
Placed two lumps of firewood there -
still hot, they rub their fists
of tiny light. Wild eyes at sundown
that say, hunt elsewhere.
I left the fire-grips too, smoky ends
beside the precious leaves
that hold dried roots, soot,
the sap of the school tree
where I learnt to mix colour.
Where El offered herself.
Gave her this bear claw.
Spent a moon alone wearing the eye
where the lace threads for her
deer’s neck.
She stretched
long and high that night,
pressed it to her lips,
already swollen with Il.
Gave it back, when she knew
Il could sense no sun, no dark.
Only opened her own mouth,
gently called to be fed.
Something else to carry round my neck,
El said. Then, Go and draw the darkest horse.
It was already forming. It’s head was bucking.
Pel gave me a stallion tooth to swallow. Felt
its curved hoof round in my stomach.
Put that bending into the drawn legs before leaving.
© 2009 Richard M.
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