Six Blind Men and an Elephant

Flank

Skin of a dragon, stretched across stones.
I walk it on my hands: tender soles. Something
has been written here only the blind
can read. A brief history of pain,
names of the tallest trees.
I press my palms to the wall.
Every welt has meaning.

Tusk

The long hard core of the soul
          spirals
out of the belly of the world.

Broken bracelets, two curved arms.

Trumpet
for the moon.
                                      Sorrow's spear.

Lonely bone.

Ear

If there was a way to wear air, it would be
this thin and this thick, it would move our every
move before we thought it, king-robe, impala
weave, ostrich hair. It would be skin
reversed: that soft, that responsive.

There is a great lake where animals drink.
This is the moss on the stones they lick.

Leg

No tree so heavy, so worn and warm.
No shade, no leaves, no branching arms.
Mysterious torso, stripped
to the waist, no navel.
Old bedding.
Gold pole.

Tail

Where is the bell to this cord?
I pull but no chime,
only
the wind falling down
a deep cave, angry and treble
and sere.

Trunk

I do not touch, I am touched.
Out of the dark a soft,
gentle and intelligent.

This hand is also a mouth, a face,
two holes for eyes,
endless
waist.

I am not blind enough to see
what it sees.

This is the longing of the hungry
whole, how it reaches,
how it feeds.

From Mauled Illusionist and also appeared in Manhattan Review