by Megan Grumbling

Have I heard of the allegory of
the cave? he wonders, blue to me in pooled
monitor lume, a dim room of insides,
guess tellings.  Shadows, shades, I’ve heard
of this the thrown projections, primitive
slung shadow plays at shape, a sense deprived
name making of our darkness but that’s all
I can remember now, here in this blue
prelude to a transvaginal, water
engorged, acoustic.  He knows nothing more
precise, either, of cave tell, but intends
to look it up.  Meanwhile, the sounds return
our certain things to know: a womb near ebb,
a right ovary longer than a left.

Later, sun blind outside, I will recall
how they were prisoners in there and trapped
in naming games.  For now, I too seek shapes
up on the bluewashed screen, light in this dark
chamber: a uterus writhing more real
than known, blood rush like chorus, sea creature,
benign cysts that he clicks and tags with red.
Strong echoes in the story, in our room,
our flickering reach for lore’s sure forms.  We dwell
here long or only, blue and calling lo
with all we know, knowing our songs by gloam,
tones both subliminal and high above
our range.  So we are told.  The tunes are clear
strains, just hundreds of times what we can hear.