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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
of hands, splayed fingers
with tiny tips, tapered.
Angela Williamson Emmert lives in rural Wisconsin with her husband and sons.