Bedlam for Now by John T. Leonard

Self Portrait of an Elephant Tusk

I surfaced like a white scar, curving the interest of an entire matriarchy and tormenting an entire bloodline, stretching trunk to tail. I am protector forager, mover of obstacles. I do not want to line a piano— you, hunter, caressing me with the tips of your mud-stained fingers. I am meant for majesties. My herd mourns their dead. I have nightmares of them—without me— hemorrhaging on open fields, their large bodies sensitive to blades of grass. One day, man might take a liking to carve into me too— elephas, an ancient curse to be gouged from the head of a bull like a tooth-charm. Spare me some dignity; if anything, let me go on, untreated and raw, spend my days a tool in hand, peeling bark from trees, grazing the hide of Mother Nature like a bright husk of moon. Hollie Dugas

Bedlam for Now

John T. Leonard

Burn some sage or plant a red fern on your roof; crawl into a valley for all I care. Throw an apple peel over your shoulder and carve the initials of your lover into a beech tree. Say it with me, three times repeating;

More often than not, rage is what gets us through.

All this time, what we’ve called tradition has really been backwards hope; Mercury in retrograde, untethered and terrorizing the villagers—

some abandoned calcium deposit of speculation.

But maybe there’s a closet where your mother hid her flask of Absolut and L&M Turkish Blends

Maybe she blacked out one Sunday and topped off a daisy vase with peppermint liquor, killing your fifth-grade science fair project.

Maybe you peaked into a neighbor’s bedroom window when you were seventeen, and saw the ghost of a child standing there naked; his see-through skin like a gutter soaked paper doll…the color of the suburbs.

How many satellites rusted over while revolving around your terrible childhood? Can you remember