← v15n2, Fall 2016Poetry · Volume 15, Number 2
Writing an Elegy
But so tangled in the branches they had to leave it, the conquistador’s
black beard cut from his head whose neck had snapped,
his deadness the others had to burn then, for the wind to take evenly away.
If not for his lust, his sickness to chase, to claim her;
if not for that Native woman’s quick intelligence, out-climbing . . .
This is what I see: the Spanish moss
as convicted to its branches—gray, colonial,
but in my century now, suspended so close each vein might well be a whole,
hanging
fiction of my mind. The moss
is a fiction of my mind: a screen, swinging
on its gothic hinges, making the light fussier as it swags, giving not just the trees
but my idea of them a Medusa look. That man,
