They say that the first instrument was a flute,
that thirty-five thousand years ago,
a man (and surely, they say, it was a man)
wrapped his hands around a hollow bone
and made the world young again
under his feet.
What a way to die,
breathing love into some bird’s dry wing-bone.
And what a way to be born, against all odds,
humming and cheating reciprocity,
giving without giving away.
Lungs without these bones are full
of stillborn songs. I smack
each breath on the bottom,
wishing it would scream or whimper
so I could rub its gleaming head.