would see you revamped as clone.
I could stroke your fuzz, so
orange-blond soft, feel the hard
and swelling buds
where your marvellous tusks will grow.
But this is selfishness, my wanting;
this is greed.
Mammoth, you must not quicken again
in a cold unwelcoming world.
With those tusks
you would become the poachers’ prey
for they are priceless and, to some,
worth murdering for.
I will forego the joy
of seeing you feast on a blackthorn hedge
crunching it up, twig and splinter,
like marrow, like bone DNA.
© Mandy Pannett
Published in Jongleur in the Courtyard (Indigo Dreams Publishing)