Spiral dance
Conjoined we circle; our interlocked hands welded decades ago by a woman with skull
and crossbones on her back, strange markings etched on viking arms
I’ve stared into them before, let them perforate just under my eyebrows, scoop me out
from where I was curled, soft behind a cataract
I’m born into the soup, matted bearskin covers the surface in a fatty layer
covers the tops of stainless steel helmets sunk like ships
covers all but the hands, behind mud, wristbanded and holding
flutes, holding spanners, feathers, endless wooden spoons to fold our singing guts
into the tented ceiling, readying us for festival, until those intestines couple in the center of our handfasted circle
so that we all digest as one body: chips, dust, pills, yoghurt-milk
blended into smooth batter, churning until stiff enough to start building on again
And then we’ll reassemble Avalon from the waste, still circling, still welding,
primitive shrieks to slice through the clay.
Back at the cave, we preen in the dustbath until sparkling, licking mildew from palms
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rolling into each cloud with rising vigour
Distant rumbles rock the walls as if a pregnant woman danced,
I incubate, waiting for my iridescent scales to grow
and for the tongue-pushed cud to dissolve.
And then Wednesday’s antelopes canter into our viscous soup
their breaths whisper back across their shoulders
their branches strike the chimes we’d hoped would be struck
We feed them apples from our mucky palms so long as they promise not to bite,
or else they risk the malice of a homemade spear
And then apple crumbs constellate so we join them in orbit, circling once more
this time, bouncing between eardrums the size of moons
pinging off one another in a ritualistic moshpit
Twining around earth’s spool, all of us fizzing protons heating until evaporation
dispersing jubilant into ecstatic black whirls:
I am not yet one year old.
