by Laura Kaminski
It’s part of what it means
to be human, why we find
inks, immerse our hands
and brushes, seek
a receptive surface.
Chauvet caves in southern
France, when every other
thing that came before
the fire had fangs, they
painted, layer on layer
herds of running, plunging
screaming, dancing horses.
They painted every time
the snows came. Each
empty surface begs for ink.
Native tribes sketched
horses on their symbols,
on the talking stick and pipe,
then dipped their hands
in dye and painted
symbols on their horses.
Faced with uncertain
certainties, rivers that can’t
reliably be stepped in
twice, we turn to ink.
We love the moon
for being out of reach,
taller than our ladders,
a page we haven’t found
a way to fill, still empty.
We love the moon
for being lonely,
for not being a river,
love that it keeps
coming back around.
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What I love about the poem is it's faithfulness to that original artist impulse -- the love of the moon and the world beyond our caves.
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