Negative hand stencil becomes a dove

by Alexandra Bergman

after “Rungs” by Dig Wayne

The first art might well have come from forced breath
spitting hematite onto the cave walls. First, art makes
a fist. What a model a fist is. Hephaestus molds iron /
I iron my shirts for work / not enough iron in my blood
ferries oxygen where I need. What I need is flicker,
just a lick of chance or flame to light my way up.
The wall’s lit up a tallow yellow canvas. My sick want
of flight is cavernous. I count us airborne because
I’ve painted it so. It pains me so, standing ladder-bound
to beckon winged things to the plaster. I break from
the terrestrial / the adders / the asters to be subterranean
and aerial simultaneously. Sly dragonfly companion,
I see you sidle dove-side. I am beside myself with love
for art. The first art may well have looked like blood,
given the iron-rich pigment people put in their mouth.
I’ve never bled for art, but it bleeds for me, right from
the heel of my hand. May the bird heal with my breath.

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