The Elephant Tax
Sugarcane drivers have it all worked out.
Ever since that first elephant,
wet highway, emergencybreak, warninglight,
the prayer that comes when God, four–footed,
ambles forth from dark vines, a question in her trunk,
the drivers have slowed everything down.
Endless horizon of an animal eye in their sideview mirror,
untriggers fingers, unclenches stundart, pepperspray, bomb.
Let the elephant approach unharmed,
expose endless rows of cut cane feathered like birds.
Let her taste her small puja of sweetness.
Ever since that first elephant,
wet highway, emergencybreak, warninglight,
the prayer that comes when God, four–footed,
ambles forth from dark vines, a question in her trunk,
the drivers have slowed everything down.
Endless horizon of an animal eye in their sideview mirror,
untriggers fingers, unclenches stundart, pepperspray, bomb.
Let the elephant approach unharmed,
expose endless rows of cut cane feathered like birds.
Let her taste her small puja of sweetness.
Turns out they know which truck you drive,
wave you down the road like a polite crossing guard
delicately keeping score. Turns out
paying the elephant tax is easy,
one trunkful a day, Great One,
Remover of Obstacles, Master of Words,
you seek me from the forest,
many handed holder of answers,
I slow my truck, bow head to shaking heart,
with words sugaring my mouth, I pay.
