ManicDDaily

Inner Elephant

I’m so mad.
I’m so sad.
Here’s the thing–my inner elephant
is matriarchal
and its bony spine, bellying up through its back
like that dark line from the navel
that forever defines a woman
who’s given birth
is sick of bowing, sick
of bundled sticks, sick
of switches–and, though it likes, in fact,
to sweep, it (my back) is sick of being suited
with a broom as an
accoutrement.

Sick of being bulled, it wants
to keep its slightly sunken calf
between its legs,
doesn’t care if it must trumpet dust, wants just
to strumpet, let
me be, says my

inner elephant,
wrinkle kneed,
thick toe-nailed, trunked
like a blubbery eel–stop
telling me what
to feel

let me wobble,
all my loosening body parts
in loose tow,
so creased my whole being pleats
like an old neck, what
the heck—

here’s the other thing–when you, female,
are an inner elephant,
you somehow forget
about being physically
overpowered.

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Very much of a draft poem, some number for April, and for Shay’s (Fireblossom’s) prompt on With Real Toads about elephants.  I actually have a couple for this prompt, but not sure I’ll get my other one together (or that this one is together particularly.)

I’m sorry by the way if late returning comments–a really busy week.  Sorry also that the drawing is a recycled one.  Just a hard week.