Printer Friendly

The Neolithic Ice Man Wakes Up in a Laboratory and Tries to Explain Himself.

 The Neolithic Ice Man Wakes Up in a Laboratory and Tries to
Explain Himself
    There is nothing left for my axe to hew. My flint's
   grown cold, so quaint, so pitiful--
   but of course! Thawed out. Forever shellacked,
   I've become artifact: three dozen seeds tweezed
   from my black puckered gut, the sticky
   resins whittled off my glassy bones, the pollen
   of Alpine flowers swabbed
   from the leathery creases of my hard-luck frown ...
   But molecules rendered to such purposeful smears
   won't simmer to a convincing
   broth: they can't find my why. No if. No plausible
   what-for. My destination?
   Yonder mountain or two? Hell if I knew. My life
   was a looted hive, the happenstance
   of a gooseberry patch. Forking up beetles and grubs
   or anything else slower
   and smaller, anything stupider than me--that was
   my fungible currency. So what about
   my love, you ask? What was she like? Ha! I think
   you just sneezed some of her
   all over your sleeve! My tongue? We had the usual
   clicks and woohoos--we could yap
   all night! Hootenanny and sing, we'd pray
   for better things. And our priests daubed the ceiling
   with the usual made-up stuff,
   tar-pit sloth gods and convincing red tigers with wings. 
COPYRIGHT 2012 Bucknell University
No portion of this article can be reproduced without the express written permission from the copyright holder.
Copyright 2012 Gale, Cengage Learning. All rights reserved.

Article Details
Printer friendly Cite/link Email Feedback
Author:Hudson, Michael Derrick
Publication:West Branch
Article Type:Poem
Date:Sep 22, 2012
Words:239
Previous Article:Only Blue Body.
Next Article:Wake Turbulence.
Topics:

Terms of use | Privacy policy | Copyright © 2021 Farlex, Inc. | Feedback | For webmasters |