The Last Tusked God No Longer Heeds the Prayers of Its Believers
by Michael Brockley
You seldom speak of the sins of the president with the five o'clock shadow. About sabotaged peace talks. About the lies cataloged in the library of the POTUS who smuggled missiles and bibles to Tehran. Later this year the last elephant will stumble into its birth beneath the shadow of Kilimanjaro. No matriarch remains to scatter the bones across the red earth in grief. Where does the tusked god find refuge when bees no longer pollinate the pomegranate trees? When the night call of gem frogs vanishes into the desert of Noah's fire? You read about the orgasms of presidents. About the demise of the Whig Party. You think about the times you were rescued by dogs. The final miracle of a god during its last gasp of compassion. You're thinking of fireflies. Of luciferin and the science of cold fire. Last year you read four books on economics and realized how your country has descended into purgatory. When you visit the zoo beside the Wild West museum, an elephant with ginkgo-shaped ears paints masterpieces using a palette of kindergarten colors. Broad strokes of yellow and red ribboned across green clouds. The signature of the artist, a lotus without its stigma.