by Ray Ball, PhD
Sometimes
we do a move
called The Elephant.
Legs splayed
evoking the memory
of the animal’s shape,
its proboscis reaching.
The muscle memory
of the hips that store
so much emotion
that never forget
stretched tau(gh)tologically.
I read somewhere
that elephants mourn
their dead. If only
mourning could be
clear and simple,
brash like the trumpeting
of a pachyderm.
If only what I buried
stayed under the earth,
but the elephant
digs it up, the fragile bones
a two-headed snake skull,
makes a memorial
exquisite with the scratchings
of her tusk.
Ray Ball, PhD, lives and works in Alaska. She is the author of two history books, and her poems have recently appeared in Cirque, L’Éphémère Review, Okay Donkey, and The Ginger Collect. She has been the recipient of a Fulbright Research Award to Spain and a Best of the Net nomination. You can find her on Twitter @ProfessorBall.
(And don’t miss Dr. Ball’s Duolingo Ponies. – Elephants Never)