Construction Literary Magazine

Fall 2020

Self-Elegy with Miscarried Foal

Self-Elegy with Miscarried Foal
Photograph via Flickr by Alison McKellar

I know they have been waiting
to hear some sort of voice
since the sun slipped out
of the snowed-in ranch. I hear
the slam of a car door, my sister
and the ballet of untied shoelaces
across grass, the whinny
of unwashed hair. Hours ago
the rain kissed the woman’s footprints
with dew, deposited her fingerprints
in the river—out of loyalty
or greed, it didn’t matter. Meanwhile
my body, the bale of hay that was alive
until it wasn’t. I wasn’t alive and then
I rolled down the steps—my body
decayed, the past meeting the present.
I lived the way the miscarried foal
almost lived—the fluid of the moment
cupped so thick across the white snow
I swear I no longer owned a reflection.


for Melisa Gregory