First, go forth & find a reed through which to pour yourself.
Inhale, exhale. For days you have danced & chanted

Drinking only your own blood from a chalice
Spiked with belladonna, mushroom,
                                                          your clansmen’s spit.

Now ready your palette. The cheeks balloon. Exhale
& the mixture wreathes each finger. Your mouth & lips

Are red as hemorrhage. Down your chin it trails.
The taste of ochre surges & ebbs

Or the bitter synesthetic tang of charcoal
Darkens both mouth & torchlit wall.
                                                         Our selves’

Relentless shuttle—we are form & function, solo
& clan. The oldest of the women hefts

A child toward the ceiling. He bends two fingers down.
From his lips
                     the self flares out incarnadine.

   Contributor’s notes

   Introduction
   Something of Us to Prove Our Afterlife: Notes on “Ochre”
   Table of Contents
   Acknowledgements

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