Someone standing at the mouth had
the idea to enter. To go further
than light or language could
go. As they followed
the idea, light and language followed
like two wolves—panting, hearing themselves
panting. A shapeless scent
in the damp air …
Keep going, the idea said.
Someone kept going. Deeper and deeper, they saw
others had been there. Others had left
objects that couldn’t have found their way
there alone. Ocher-stained shells. Bird bones. Grounded
hematite. On the walls,
as if stepping into history, someone saw
their purpose: cows. Bulls. Bison. Deer. Horses—
some pregnant, some slaughtered.
life seemed wild and alive, moving
when someone moved, casting their shadows
on the shadows stretching
in every direction. Keep going,
the idea said again. Go …
Someone continued. They followed the idea so far inside that
outside was another idea.
The skull is a myth, the gentle flesh,
eyes black pools in the face’s expanse.
There is a rumor. Do you know it?
Privacy of the body; its separateness.
So serious we take ourselves, our
serious limbs, our serious mouth
making clear delirious sounds, our
hair, the selfish hours of our, our, our.
Question: What if it is not divided?
The I is also the you, the monkey
is also la selva, the leaf, the old man
cactus with its thin white hair, what then
must we call ourselves? The ribbon
is not a lie. The pink cord that weaves
around both the body and the world
is pervasive and shatterproof,
the ribbon unravels beyond the frame
and its persistence, through clock time,
through illusion and emptiness, it is here
now, and it can hear you breathing.