Cave of the Hands, et al.
They couldn’t write so they drew themselves.
On the cave walls they drew their own bodies
and the bodies of the animals they killed,
which were also gods. They drew calcite spirits,
dancers black with bat excrement, hands
for holding power. The eye. The tooth.
Only the left hand, which could strike the right
cheek, leaving the other free for contemplation.
We also killed the god who came. In our paintings,
though, he looked like us. Fat baby, barefoot
child. A man with secrets. We killed him because
we were hungry. Because the other cheek refused.