I was going to shake its hoof when it grew shoulder pads, a helmet, and a number 46 on its back.
“What’s this leggy transformation?” I mouthed with my belly button closed.
She didn’t fly, she didn’t leap, she didn’t leave a trail of sugar plum treats,
no, she just ran away as fast as her nylons would permit.
I followed her down the rabid holes. I reached for her pie crust promises, singed with raspberry currant, battle shipped in galactic possibilities.
I dreamed her beauty was walking like the night, that breaking her bones meant a torrent of jelly beans
and when I turned the corner, her mauve melodies and rock candy feet splintered off like a disease,
leaving behind another giraffe that turned into a pair of sneakers with shorts so long
I could mop the court with his defeat.
— yiqi 1 aug 2012 7:52 AM