Today's poem is by Richard Broderick

Voice from Lascaux

I was angry
until I realized I was one of them,
stick figures sprung from barren ground,
my hands clumsier than stone,
the cut above my brow
bleeding into their eyes.

In these, the earliest attempt
to explain ourselves,
we are always lying on our backs,
limbs stiff with awe, not crawling,
trying to remember
how to walk on all fours.

Only the beasts floating overhead
are fully-imagined,
three-dimensional, flesh-colored,

still hunting us down.

Copyright © 2016 Richard Broderick All rights reserved
from Jesus of Walmart
NYQ Books
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission

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