The Birth of Shiva | JoAnne McKay
Wishing I would be present at his first
words, rich click redolent with real belief
about the whys of the world, not just whats,
whens, wheres. In the geological rift
observe, keen, transitional man of species
indeterminate. I need not imagine.
To stand beside australopithecines
(we did for them, one way or another)
with habilis, handy, then ergaster,
then heidelbergensia in their place.
Step time, step pace; erectus in Asia,
we did for them, one way or another;
neanderthalensis we did for too.
You know the rest. Not just skulls, skulls, skulls
and syllables, but carving flesh man,
these ones that went before, the ones that bore
familiar stuff, unusual nonsense.
All that requires is several million years:
I would attend until the moment when,
precisely when, the canny man became.
There is no shade between us; his sun ours,
his needs, wants, lusts and his unsettling tongue
ours. I could press flat forehead against his,
he would press and penetrate, dark, fertile.