we are not winged gods
born of eggs
straddling the heavens
or walking beneath them.
we cannot define the future from sticks dragged across the mud
or the shape of bone shards thrown in a bowl.
we did not falter at the boom of the voice,
we are not stranded.
we are not good at being sad
but we don’t know any other way.
I can’t help thinking
that if you loved me we could be happy.
we are not half moons
covered in darkness
semi circles
shapes
dancing in the distance,
even though our spears are caked with old blood
and our feet ache from the hunt
we have bodies to sleep next to at night
but not me.