ISSUE 11

Mark Seidl

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The Invention of Portraiture

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In the dark throat of the family cave

my father painted the meat he hoped

our spears would find—umber elk

 

and bison, black antelope—

molded their shapes over the rock's

dips and ridges, so in the flickering

 

rush-light they seemed to breathe

and trail shadows over a flinty plain.

Once, with brisk strokes, he put

 

my sister on the wall, legs at full

stretch, lithe as an ibex, loving her own

speed, the way she did as we dashed

 

along the riverbank. Until a bear,

huge and quick, charged from the forest,

me pushing past her to squeeze

 

into a cleft. Beside her shape

my father daubed my face, chin like

a blunted hand-ax, right where

 

a rough knob seemed to swell my jaw.

Like someone punched me, I said. His smile

stopped short of his eyes. He turned back

 

to the wall, jabbed the bulge with his brush.

Black paint spattered over the rock—

a bruise that would not fade to blue.

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