The caves I'm digging
are calling my ancestors home. Wolf-haired,
doe-eyed men
and women with strong arms,
hearts that don't die
but burst
in a rush of blood and love, of other life.
The caves I'm digging are buying back
what we left behind.

In all these years, I never turned.
There are lives behind me. Hate behind me
I never watched recede. My anger
is shovels. Sweat. The caves I'm digging
are calling forgotten home.

There are territories staked
out here, piss and fury
to be scrubbed out. There are holes,
fist-sized, in the walls;
my anger is spackle, welcome mats.
The wolves are gathering
to sit by my fires.

The rain is coming. The caves are dry.
And you, my love--
the caves I'm digging
are calling my ancestors home,
but there is a place for you
at the fire, if you come.