I do not wish to be this elephant
plagued with cemeteries and a mind that holds
and holds, watertight, the layers of losses—
and nuzzles the earth to turn up what it turns
and sweeps at the earth with the grace of noses;
I do not relish this thickness, these feet
slung at the ankle with a leathery drape
which dust up and pack down in cyclical fever
the narrowing plots of survivable brush.
I do not wish
to be a un-tusked mother who whines,
who thins in the corners of her sons’ eyes—
not noting the tweak in each, the rivulet
of current striking out, mutating, mutant—
not predicting that made hysterical by loss
an elephant goes rogue, rams a grey grief;
lumbers its heady mass into the village
becoming denatured, denatured and aroused
to spectacular, vengeful killing sprees
(its ears aflame, fanning, raw.) As if losing
species. As if the animal body proclaims:
I cannot be what I am having seen what I saw.

Find published poem here

Illustrated by Michèle Bygodt