Building 45

Literary/Arts Journal

The Mammoth

by Hannah Madland

Gravel crunches as we approach the mammoth.
It stands towering and mangled.
Its paint peeled back, revealing open wounds.
The moon glances off its eyes showing its empty head
And I wonder just how long, this place has been dead.
The grass whispers as we head, moving for the mouth.

With the rotting teeth pried open we file in one by one.
Dust drifts though the air like blood cells, attacking my nose
And the smell of mold seeps from the floor as pus.
Walking up stairs I look through its glassy eyes.
The grass still sways in its silent dance still whispering.
The moon still shines through the windows.
I still watch.
Enjoying the excitement of the calm.