Tusk, Tusk.
I reside in a room just ten by ten:
a living room where they never see me.
Though I am largely there it’s not just men
who choose to ignore what isn’t pretty.
My hide is a hundred; no guarantee
that things unsaid in my well rutted trunk
won’t be wine whispered when women are drunk.
I’m the ivory, unseen lock keeper;
the weight that sits and can never be sunk;
the contained past; the water-logged future …
Email me for Creative Ink for Writers’ spring term classes starting in January.