Igg
by Gary Leising
Caveman made that sound and it became
his name. Igg, he said to the stick man
drawn on the wall above where he slept,
Igg, he said to the vine he sucked water from,
Igg, he said to the naked woman he met by a fruit tree
who said Ogg back. Ogg was the man
she loved who didn’t love her, though she
bore his children who both died, and when
they did Ogg beat her, broke her leg
so she walked slow and with a limp, but Igg
only saw her standing and had no idea
her stretch marks were a flaw. She had
dark hair and she said Ogg but didn’t
really know if that was love but knew Ogg
was where she left him or would return
to that spot where they ate and slept,
so Igg left her without knowing her name.
Igg, he said to the toothy mammal that attacked
later that day, and when he fought it off, Igg
he said to the blood in the dust beneath him.
Gary Leising, Associate Professor of English at Utica College, has had poems published inBarn Owl Review, Blackbird, Connecticut Review,
The Cincinnati Review, River Styx, Margie, Quarterly West, South Dakota Review, and elsewhere. He has reviews and essays in
The James Dickey Newsletter, Black Warrior Review and Pleiades. His work was chosen by Russell Edson for the 2008 1/2K Prize from
Indiana Review.