JA Lenton
Lascaux
We have learned nothing in twelve thousand years.
Pablo Picasso, upon exiting the Lascaux Cave, France.
Shaft
This world spoke to us
long before we said a word,
the talking waters underground,
mouthing sound and resound,
stifling our breath to hear
clearer this dream-speak and avert
waking a dark that bit off limbs,
engorging on our wanderings.
Nave
This world shaped us,
and we drew it with our bodies,
hands-stained red ochre, grey tuff;
moss paint sprayed through a puff
of fluted bone: two splayed hands
bristle into antlers, moist coal
traces a six-legged doe
breaking cover by rushlight.
Apse
This world marked us, signed us,
and we sealed it in names,
my eyes grapple over the glyphs; what
is this scratched box: hut, head, or torso?
A cave. My blunt mouth booms O,
stupid avalanche of wonder, the echo
chants along these walls, seeking new
openings for what we do not know.