A tiny ceramic elephant sits on the shelf
of my college-issued “wooden” desk.
The hole in the elephant’s back—
for prickly incense sticks and wilted wildflower stems
seems larger now.
Its elephant legs stick together
because, of course, it is too small to have its own.
Unstable, it wobbles back and forth
although it has never been able to successfully fall down.
I put it there four or five months ago—
I think it was Late January?
And now a white halo of dust has formed itself
encircling the elephant
and imprisoning it in snow.
But this “wooden” shelf is not real wood—
it is plastic.
And the “ceramic” is not real ceramic—
it is also plastic, probably.
Plastic like her tube of honey-flavored lip balm
still sitting at the bottom of my (also plastic) underwear drawer
and the strawberry punnet in my fridge
the kind of transparent plastic that stays cold and clammy.
It was late January
and my cheeks flushed red and cold
like strawberries. Like strawberries in late June.
Like the strawberries she gave me once so
I took a bite—
She crumbled under my fingertips
and I felt her mealy flesh crush beneath my skin
as if my fingertips
were now elephant feet,
But I didn’t think I was holding her too tightly—
or was I?
And my fingers flushed red
like my cheeks in the cold—
like my cheeks on that day
the day in late January
As I ran my fingers over the tiny, probably-plastic elephant in my pocket
and my hands are cold but I am sweating
I turn the key in the ignition and a halo of snow appears on my (probably) plastic dashboard—
or is it snow?
