Elijah Woodruff


Today, in a rolling sky of clouds, I saw an azure space shaped just like you.

2.

Joy is forged. Not given. Wake up, thing! Forge it thick this go round. Gather more
wood—though there be enough of it—then smelt that old joy, weak and brittle as it was, down
and make a needle and thread. You’ll sew flesh together until you are a new creature threaded
through with a joy you have made for yourself like every man must.

3.

My childhood mind of memory is myth. And my heart beats brutish, lattice-scarred in gleaming
steel threads, fooling itself full.

4.

I sent him a text. Meet me at the slow river with the gray, porous stones. I wish to skip rocks with
you and talk of this absence inside of me that I think is shaped like you. And I will probably fail to
say anything about it, but while I search for words about how I’ve woodened over the wound, we
can watch the stones that fail skipping sink in the sliding stream.

5.

He messaged me back. I’m glad you thought of me today, but I am away. My eyes are not yet
pearls and my bones are still my bones. We still have plenty of time to fix this thing that ails you.
I know how you worry sometimes about growing older.

Elijah Woodruff (He/Him) is a high school English teacher and when he’s not working, he’s hanging out with his wonderful wife. His work has appeared in Beaver Magazine, Roi Fainéant Literary Press, and others. Twitter: @Woodrelli