But did he find the tribe
spat out of rock
below the cousin clouds
with sounding conch shells
between their ears?
They feed on everything:
metals, birdsong, saffron,
until what’s out and in
seem twin and one
like the dance of lesser
and greater dreamtime.
Social as termites,
they raise tower upon
tower, projecting
a blind, spiral god;
vicious as hornets,
they cultivate venoms and
enemies to die of them.
There’s less blood
painting and head polo
than their fathers knew.
Customs evolve as
killing grows easier.
They’d almost rather
track evil spirits
to their inmost cells,
corner them in forests.
Their stories tell both
of gates and pits,
how one can seem
much like the other.
Armed with a language
they speak forward slowly,
liable to lies
and misconstructions,
tending at times
toward the grotesque,
but hopeful at last
of their waiting name.
by James Fowler
James Fowler teaches literature at the University of Central Arkansas. His poems have appeared in such journals as Poetry Quarterly, Rockhurst Review, The Hot Air Quarterly, Amoskeag, and Parting Gifts.
