Marlo Bester-Sproul
Elephants Cry Over Bones
I remember one—
worn eyes, grave shoulders and a gait
that must have been measured by the high
marks of a whip from the time it was small.
It did not stand on a stool and smile, instead it wore rings
into dust and carried a basket like it was the last straw.
Another had the thin trumpet of the wounded, it echoed
from car to car, and stopped entire families in their tracks.
When no one came, it began hurling boulders – then was gone.
Elephants cry over bones
they carry the soil of another world deep in the cracks of their skin.
Their eyes are the turtle's, still as stone, old as the yellow earth sweeping
beneath their thick trunks. The sun and the crocodile slide from the corners of their vision.
The zebra scatter for miles in all directions, but they are not distracted
for they are following the pull of their grief
and their memory. They are not migrating like birds;
instead they are carrying themselves over mountains
towards badlands and skulls.
Elephants cry over bones
in bone–yards they stroke all that is left
of their loved ones – no burials, no urns
only trunks curled like arms and rain bucketing.
worn eyes, grave shoulders and a gait
that must have been measured by the high
marks of a whip from the time it was small.
It did not stand on a stool and smile, instead it wore rings
into dust and carried a basket like it was the last straw.
Another had the thin trumpet of the wounded, it echoed
from car to car, and stopped entire families in their tracks.
When no one came, it began hurling boulders – then was gone.
Elephants cry over bones
they carry the soil of another world deep in the cracks of their skin.
Their eyes are the turtle's, still as stone, old as the yellow earth sweeping
beneath their thick trunks. The sun and the crocodile slide from the corners of their vision.
The zebra scatter for miles in all directions, but they are not distracted
for they are following the pull of their grief
and their memory. They are not migrating like birds;
instead they are carrying themselves over mountains
towards badlands and skulls.
Elephants cry over bones
in bone–yards they stroke all that is left
of their loved ones – no burials, no urns
only trunks curled like arms and rain bucketing.
Page(s) 38
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