“close your eyes,” he had always said.
rolling his eyes as I’d unroll my socks.
blister by blister,
an ant bite or two.
these are things I point to
when asked why the ears
of opinionated elephants
fold inwardly, wet
beneath a sarcastic sun.
peeling their skins in laughter,
and blaming Dumbo for his own conception.
but his journeys, they’re hardly prodigal.
the part where hand hits glass.
I passed, nodded, sipped.
my smoothie, a tasteless mango’s pit,
floating, its pieces
like her insides pressed
though she’s not phased either.
unlike myself on a deflating couch,
defending my skinny ankles
and glaring at no one as palm strikes cheek.