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TPCReview Issue 002

Ruby Davis

If an elephant walks in, then the room gets a little smaller

If an elephant submerges itself in a lake,
then all the dust wades off and it is no longer grey.

If an elephant emerges back from the water,
then it’s no longer dirty and cloudlike, but clean with the color of soil.

If shame is autonomous enough to have a habit,
then it’s certainly grown fond of snapping every breath in two.

If the world is a body,
then there’s a desert lung.

If there’s a desert lung,
then shame is an elephant snapping twigs in half on its way to water.

If a wandering elephant snaps a breath in two,
then it probably means well.

If shame breaks a stick,
then it’s probably because it’s too large to even see a branch.

If your body becomes shame,
then there’s an abscess of guilt somewhere in the small intestine.

If you find your guilt growing to the size of a fist,
then you should call your doctor or
figure out what you did to deserve an abscess of guilt in the first place.

If an elephant sheathes its tusk straight through you,
then the guilt will come clean out, stuck bleeding on the ivory.

If an elephant walks into the water with guilt on its tusk,
then the guilt will disintegrate and the grey dust will shed off of the elephant.

If you feel like you’ve grown too large for the room you’re standing in,
you probably have.

If the shame you’re carrying walks in with you,
the room gets a little bit smaller.

Ruby Davis is an undergraduate student in creative writing and anthropology. She is usually with her cat, Babushka. You can find her other writing in Scribbled Online, Ninth Heaven, Grain of Salt, and others, or you can find her on Substack @evenmolluskshaveweddings.