Abel and Lucy by Liz Martin

Abel and Lucy sitting in a tree.
F-U-C-K-I-N-G
First comes a scratch,
Then comes a hump,
Then comes heavy-titted Lucy slinging two bitty Australopithecus afarensis-bahrelghazali sterile hybrids over her shoulders, walking from tree to field, back to tree–a mother pacing through the cackling laughter of Abel and the pack’s alpha shooting the chaz, slapping backs, and scratching hair covered balls. His KT-12/H1 mandible’s what got her, the line bolder than the homonids she’s used to. A jaw bone so strong it withstood fossilization, the test of 3.6 million years. So Lucy went with Abel, a couple of pre-Adamites, moving to the Great Rift Valley, one knuckled step at a time. Lucy shouldn’t have expected anything better. He’s beneath her, stratigraphically speaking, of course. Some day soon Abel will move back to his own kind, leaving Lucy to drop dead from the exhaustion of being an outcast from her species, trying to raise two not-quite right genetically challenged children. Just lay down and die, Lucy, your bones will last, even if your lust did not.


Liz Martin moonlights as a post-modern, feminist housewife, quilting, knitting, and gardening to fill up the moments when she is not in danger of being buried under a landslide of freshman composition essays or reading poetry for Map Literary, a journal of contemporary writing and art. Her poetry has been published in Arsenic Lobster and is forthcoming from Eunoia Review.