It must be mid-morning,
early afternoon or late
dark night.
No one
speaking.
The cat asleep, curled
into the c of her name;
the dog with nothing to bark at.
A bird sings a half-hearted tone.
Essentially, alone.
Paper smells fresh.
The envelope’s glue tastes of mint.
The writer doesn’t
know that yet.
She tells
about the tomato she tracked
as it ripened,
for eleven days, green
to mud brown, to red.
She sliced white bread, spread
with mayonnaise. When she
went to pick the fruit,
she found a squirrel
had beaten her to it.
A nibbled red world dead in dirt.
Think of the imperfection
of sharing, she writes, the necessity
of forfeiture
and transcendence.
She tells of cutting away
the animal’s piece
to slice the rest, a heart bleeding,
a valentine for herself.
I wish, she adds post script,
you were here.
Love elephant and want to go steady?
Assistant Editor: Alicia Wozniak/Editor: Catherine Monkman
Photo: elephant journal archives
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