H. Antecessor
by Joan Houlihan
All halted elegance, you make a paper wolf
for me
then blow into a bottle for the howl. We are so merry
in the belly of July, knees pressed together, kissing
as we eat, while west, in Gran Dolina, the intact
skeletons are spread with tools around a cold hearth.
Trouble yourself: they are deformed
by a hammering for marrow along the longer
bones, and on the templar, blackened.
When man is a study of cut mark and fracture,
woman should be wary. I am not. Cloud-tails float
high, uncombed, as I, with found weed braided
simply in my hair, lean to your mouth.
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