She suckles from plastic,
not wrinkled flesh—
no heartbeat beneath the skin
of this quart-sized bottle,
no mother’s trusting nudge
to steady her trembling steps.
Her eyes,
the bluest brown,
still too young to carry
the weight of memory,
search for all
that will never return—
a shape, a scent,
a trumpet in the tall grass.
Wrapped in threadbare green,
she wears her raw grief
like a second hide—
dust-colored,
sun-cracked,
stitched by gunshot silence.
A warm keeper’s hand
now fosters a lost herd.
He feeds her survival,
but cannot feed
the ache of absence.
What lullaby did the rifle silence?
What legacy of tusk and trail
was stolen—more than ivory—
in a single greedy shot?
Yet even in sorrow,
she drinks.
Even in stillness,
she grows.
And one day—
if we are kind—
she may learn
to mother
what was once
unmothered.
