Sharon Whitehill

Court Date in Three Acts

Act 1 Unable to find either license or the certificate of her birth for her court date,

Dawn is crying and I am fuming. Let her face the consequences, I want to say, but it’s the teenager’s parent who pays in the end.

Act 2 Did you drink the beer? the juvenile officer asks. Her denial forthright, firm: The driver gave it to me and told me to pour it out. Does that still count as possession? No trace of snippy teen in her query, Her voice trembles, tears brim, red blotches appear on her neck. My anger dwindles, respect and tenderness rise.

Act 3 I watch her fill out new forms for a duplicate license, stare at her silly shoes, at the blouse untucked from her skirt, at the hair caught under her collar, and I’m engulfed by a love that feels almost like grief, as if I’ve breathed water.

Sharon Whitehill

Sharon Whitehill

Scientists Marvel at How Resourceful the Elephant’s Trunk

When the African elephant floats the tortilla chip from the end of her trunk to her mouth, the scientists cheer:

an item so fragile it crumbles in salsa and a beast who weighs more than a spinet piano.

A match designed to gauge an appendage that can seize chunks of fruit like a fist

or fling predators over her shoulder, yet be worked like a soft-bristled brush

to sweep seeds in a heap and suck them up like a child slurping noodles.

A singular limb: an expandable carrier for the transport of gallons of water,

a flexible hose to deliver a drink, or a snorkel when rivers are deep.

A Swiss Army knife of a nose tipped with two dainty fingers she wields

to probe or to pinch or to pick up a delicate chip:

just inhale enough air to clamp it in place, and convey it unbroken into her mouth.