Handprints on the Walls of Ancient Caves Was it a grandmother’s work, an old woman gathering the children at the wall, their lives ever expanding like lungs taking in air, blowing stone on spread fingers covering the wall in crushed ochre, a field for hands, a world formed around them, held open? The grandmother paints to live in the space made of children’s hands. * A baby riding in the crook of one arm and a toddler escaping the other, I am in love with myself, my body flawless for the hunger of a child, for the pain of a child awake and lonely. I have grown nerves to probe the dark corners of a cave or a living room. I tingle, push my finger into the mouth of a child, scoop out the lucky penny, metallic scent and a glimpse of the small ochre tongue. * The front door opens. The house takes a breath, sighs when they leave. Ochre but for the placing ...
Flying Island is the Online Literary Journal of the Indiana Writers Center, accepting submissions from Midwest residents and those with significant ties to the Midwest.