But someone told us to get a room,
and the only room we could find
was inside an elephant, somewhere
between the proboscidial nerve
and the tusk. Cramped but cozy,
like a decent childhood. Anyway,
it was dusk. We were fairly happy,
if fairness can ever attach to happiness.
The curtains were velvety; we lived
off peanuts. But then, groggy, you said,
I think we need to talk about the elephant
in the room. I said, you mean the room
in the elephant? You said, no, I’m speaking
in metaphor. I said, like a river or a rose?
You said, those are similes. I said,
not really, not first they aren’t, which
was true, if truth matters, which likely
it does. I closed my eyes. Outside the walls,
I could hear the river rushing, its fish
like a thousand sparkly secrets. And then,
we were moving, being moved, were moved.
The elephant, having grown thirsty, knelt
on the bank of the river, lifted its trunk
to drink what is drunk. We would be anointed
or drowned—wouldn’t know which ‘til morning.