A Drunk Docent Offers a Private Tour of the David H. Koch Hall of Human Origins
by Daniel Schall
You’ve seen this war of limbs before. Come on in.
Because no one questions their morals,
of course you imagine the cavemen will kill
tusked mammals and each other, shearing
fat from hair, surrounded by fir and ash,
reclining on a fallen elm—here, observe
sabertooth shoulder hunked in garnet bulges,
seared over those always-fading coals. They speak
through the bumping of their bodies.
Here, spear and snow, flocked with dripples
of sumac tallow, rear-reflector red,
the shiver of our own minds
backing up against the ice age. Ever
been to Disneyland? There, fuzz-glued
animatronics stumble, oblivious to the privilege
of movement, keyholes alloyed in their joints.
Tonight, I could drive home, plunge
my own body in a bed of wax. But here:
eye and hand had to choose
forever. What was I talking about
again? The Director’s attention
must have been torn towards the end
of the diorama, here, where the Artist
increasingly riffed: see Neanderthal
and Cave Human both slopping
into a space-age blender
leaves and chunks of purple meat.
Note the eyes, drawn to the button
labeled pulse—something distant
shucked into the pads of their fingers—
the shape of things begging to be pressed.
Daniel Schall is a poet and teacher living in Pennsylvania. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Citron Review, Midway Journal, Elysium Review, Anthropocene Literary Journal, Philadelphia Stories, Thimble Literary Magazine and other journals. He can be found on Twitter @Dan_Schall, and online at danschallwriter.wordpress.com.