Tuesday, March 31, 2015

When I read Orwell's, "Shooting an Elephant"

He detached from his bones
—a song, severed. I repeated

his melody over and over
The pages fell.  I made

tea for his anger.  I read.
He was left by the stoop,

haunted by his father.  
I told him so.  I was a healer,

plugging in Christmas lights,
shooting elephants.  I cracked. 

“George Orwell was paper
needing ink.” I cracked

from the spine of the book.
Beautiful ligaments in summer

lilac, blurred and fragrant,
I cracked.  Please don’t end.  

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