by Joshua Zeitler

You won’t believe me, but it’s easy
to forget. Sure, digging a hole that size
is hard, but that whole business
hadn’t crossed my mind since…
Well, a lifetime’s a long line. Mine’s
weighed low. Not long after we dug, I fell in
love—same railway yard, after dark,
though we weren’t disturbed a whit
by any lumbering ghost. Strong wind,
I suppose, blowing through; yes, I see it
whipping her dress against her hips.
Those days it came on quick and vanished.
Love, sure, and the wind.
Her name was Mary, like the elephant,
and her dress a plain brown, well fit
to get dirty in, which I admit we did.
Parents waited up ‘til damn near dawn,
grounded her long enough to kill
any mischief in her eyes.
Hot, sure, but every day was hot.
I don’t remember breaking a sweat.
Used to dirty work. Wouldn’t do it again,
though, not at my age. Took six of us
a long while then, hale as we were.
Time we got done, the show was over.
Crowd thinned out like those high clouds
up there. They hadn’t let her down.
Once a thing’s done, what’s there to do?
I guess it must have been a gale that night:
when I picture her brown eyes, brown dress
flapping, that’s when I see it: the crane
listing like the whisper of a breeze
catching a weather vane.

Editor’s note: You can read more about Mary the elephant and her sad, tragic death here.

Joshua Zeitler is a queer, nonbinary writer based in rural Michigan. They received their MFA from Alma College, and their work has appeared or is forthcoming in Pithead Chapel, Midway Journal, Stanchion, Syzygy, and elsewhere. They can be found on Twitter: @thejayestofzees.