Zoo Welcomes Baby Giraffe to Herd

Zoo Welcomes Baby Giraffe to Herd

The African Savannah is the perfect place for raising
wild insecurities, breathing rich summer air untainted by
man-made chemicals, smog, traffic. As in, I am feral and untamed.
As in, do not claim to own me. Giraffes give birth standing up,
ejecting their young into the world like a rewound videotape
ready to be watched, throwing the foal onto its feet,
hoping it will stand. I’m partial to open jeep rides across the reserve,
leaves clenched tight in my palm, priceless emeralds
lifted from my sweating fingers by curled, black tongues.
They are always hungry. I cannot fathom this,
not when I’m watching a sea of spots dancing across the grassland,
patient, plodding adults and small, perfectly formed calves,
graceful hooves picking around holes and imperfections,
necks stretching above my outstretched arm, curling
around my waist, trapping me in their muscular embrace.
Being here, in this moment, wet saliva dripping off my knuckles,
skin red and peeling underneath the wide brim of a safari hat,
means everything. It is who I have become now, forsaking
floral bed sheets and penguin calendars for nights brimming with stars,
soft grass beneath my calloused feet. This feeling,
of knowing that everything is so much bigger than me
is overwhelming, underappreciated. It hurts to think about it.
Giraffes live in small, loose groups, like knitting circles,
that change, the ebb and flow of the ocean, the young
never left alone but watched over like human offspring in a daycare.
Children fight over everything from trucks to dolls, engaging
in drawn out shouting matches with well-placed punches to
underdeveloped shoulder muscles or round cheeks. Male giraffe calves too
engage in play fighting, before they are a month old. This does not bode well
for giraffe society. I often read in the shadow of giants,
stretching my neck out as far as possible, wishing
for hooves instead of fingers, the tail I lost in the womb,
long spindly legs. My field guide states that calves are 6 feet tall at birth.
Forgive me, but I want nothing more than to be reborn.

Case #98067

Case #98067

Age: 21.
Eagle tattoo on the shoulder.
Clothing included
a leather jacket, orange polo,
and a pronounced lack of style.
Sex: Male. His nose turns
slightly up at the end.
His eyebrows were trimmed,
but his watch face melted.
Race: White. Even though
the burns cover over
seventy percent of the body,
he died in neatly pressed slacks.
Date of Death: May 5th, 2008.
The piñata exploded upon contact.
The police are investigating,
but, so far, have failed in finding
any leads. Donkeys are herbivorous
in the wild, but this one
must have been raised in captivity.
Autopsy findings: muscle atrophy.
Concentrated largely in the area of
the heart, extending the length
of his torso. His fingertips
are perfectly round and clean.
Degenerative joint changes. The
soles of his feet match
the color of early cave paintings
in Lascaux, France. Toxicology:
abnormal levels of carbon monoxide
present within the lungs. The lyrics
to popular love songs promote
spur of the moment hook ups
inside parked cars. Broken hearts
kill no one.

Cause of Death: suffocation,
third degree burns, poison. He
choked to death on his own heart.