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.