The River

Rows of elephant families

Some dead, some listless

Lie huddled by the river
Their looming masses caked in a red mud

That wrangled their skin

Running rampant within wrinkles

Trembling as sleeping rocks do

Under the delicate steps of children

The roots of the tree grow into the dark water

That has ended all sound. 

Its sap has poisoned the communal river

Roots snarling dark clouds within its murky currents

The young boys of the village tread lightly

Along the death of the shore

Carrying severed limbs of their sisters

Encased in banana leaves

Their tiny, cracked feet march

To congregate beneath the tree’s shadow

Gorging themselves

Holding high, their meals above their ravenous gaping mouths

The limbs leaking streams of jet black

Meandering down their dirty necks

Satiated and passive

They toss the arms and calves into the river

Playfully running from the splash

They were children once

The eldest kneels in a cloudy stupor

Humming loudly among them

He notices an infant’s hand, still dry, lying beside him

Nudges it in with his fingers

And hears no drop upon its entrance

Rising, he clasps his throat

In an effort to feel sound

In an effort to remember