Gris-Gris, an online journal of literature, culture & the arts
Fiction   /   Nonfiction   /   Poetry


by Anne Marie Macari


Carrying little, wearing a weak

headlamp, a mile in, stumbling

and wet, the cave walls

like my own insides and I an animal

painted there. Darkness

filling in my cartoon lines, my blank self.


Dear Friend, I am inside a hole

in the earth, with pots

of ochre and ash. My offerings—

your hair, the print of my hand.