An Elegy
Every forest could be
a cemetery conceived by the old gods
who made trees and wolves
of withering loved ones and imperious kings.
Transformations given
as mercy or punishment.
a cemetery conceived by the old gods
who made trees and wolves
of withering loved ones and imperious kings.
Transformations given
as mercy or punishment.
All the limbs on the ground,
skeletal,
and the living still towering
over their dead.
I walk the roots,
to remember you, stopping
only where we used to.
Branches snap under my feet,
twist my ankles.
I never know which you were
whetted maw or benevolent shade,
withering loved-one or imperious king.
But I’ve always been certain that,
if you’d had to earn my love,
you never would have.
About the Author
Alexa Ransom Palmer is a graduate of the University of Texas at Austin. She lives in Texas with her husband and cat Nim. This is her first publication.