Elegy

No shepherds. No nymphs. Maybe just one:

the girl the fawn strips like a fisherman's rose.

Death turns its mouth red. It can no longer lie

in the lilies. Not on my watch. The lake is filthy

with silver fish sticky with leeches. Lovesick,

I flick a feather into the water. No stones.

Only the one in my pocket, heavy as a tongue.

"Elegy" originally appeared in American Poetry Review