Exorcising the Elephant

Someone’s granddaughter, trussed

for devour, famine seized,

like senna leaf wrestles the weary

from lethargy’s yawn, and respired

hunger as an art to chisel

through her body. Sinew and nerve

store memory—like the bruised

mattress her mother’s mother stuffs

with portraits of dead men

to summon if: roots let go, runoff

spits on the porcelain,

or the girl needs repair—

so granny’s little Thunder Thighs

drives the cross

cut from fat to ivory

stone, burns meat off marrow,

blunts every muscle’s memory

of late nights limbs played dead,

and her spirit fled to nana’s

kitchen—where Holy smoke unspools

hair—to curl inside her

a cappella lore

and self-possessed laugh,

after she’d sucked the last

meat off a skinned calf’s bone.