by Ray Ball, PhD Sometimeswe do a movecalled The Elephant.Legs splayed evoking the memoryof the animal’s shape,its proboscis reaching.The muscle memoryof the hips that storeso much emotionthat never forgetstretched tau(gh)tologically.I read somewherethat elephants mourntheir dead. If onlymourning could beclear and simple,brash like the trumpetingof a pachyderm.If only what I buriedstayed under the earth,but the elephant digs it up, the fragile Read More