I like the stone age best
Me and the other women,
squatting round a rough fire,
tearing the naked meat from the bone
with bloody hands.
Then grooming one another,
picking ticks, ticks, ticks
from matted hair,
as the clockless days crawl by.
Our brats, simian, mud brown;
who knows which brat's which,
who cares?
Some die. We howl a day,
then soon forget. Always another,
tugging at the breast.
And the best of it?
The elemental joy
when the men come back,
when the men come back with the kill.
Ann Alexander
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