My Rhino
There are many in the water-hole who love to swim
but it is my rhino who anoints the mud.
Many like to rant and bellow
but my rhino’s sighs are a secretive poetry.
My rhino has no knees
and a hide studded like a hell’s angel’s jacket
but the taste of her is bedevilled by biting flies
and her great horn
is no stone torch
but soft inside as human hair and nails,
easily sawed off its bloody stump,
powdered down for precious
precious money.
The sights of a rifle are super-acute
but my rhino’s eyes are deep and, like a horse’s, dark.
There are many maps to fold and unfold
but my rhino’s are invisible and durable as memory,
musk-scented empires.
There are many mothers
but my rhino is the fiercest.
None can outrun
a bullet.
Pippa Little
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