All those hominids stood around to watch,
scratching their heads and hairy armpits.
So like them it was,
well, sort of
but ever so puny, while more or less pink.
Was this bod something to do with a future?
Maybe the rich grasses and coconuts
had a kind of blessing to grant him;
nightshade and garlic somehow
shield him from the big cats’
They wondered what it could possibly
grow into, from this pipsqueak. But something
or other was in the balmy air.
They didn’t have a word for gods,
not the merest monosyllable,
but their shaggy spines
were kind of tingling there, like electricity.
Male or female, the lumpen hominids
didn’t want to attack this new thing
of unattractive flesh.
Perhaps you could feel
it was filled with
what they would come to call a magic spell,
millennia later on.
Chris Wallace-Crabbe is a widely travelled Melbourne poet, whose latest collection is My Feet Are Hungry (Pitt Street Poets, 2014).
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