Erin Monahan


Cenotaph

I stroke your crumbled bones,
sun baked and weather-worn
in a desert graveyard.

I fondle the ivory relics of your name,
beat them into the earth
with the drums of my feet.

You don't answer.

Have you forgotten, in sewn-eyed darkness,
or do you still whisper,
as I do, in elephant songs?

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