Judith Beveridge
THE DOMESTICITY OF GIRAFFES
THE DOMESTICITY OF GIRAFFES
She languorously swings her tongue
like a black leather strap as she chews
and endlessly licks the wire for salt
blown in from the harbour.
Bruised-apple eyed she ruminates
towards the tall buildings
she mistakes for a herd:
her gaze has the loneliness of smoke.
I think of her graceful on her plain –
one long-legged mile after another.
I see her head framed in a leafy bonnet
of balloon-bobbing in trees.
Her hide's a paved garden of orange
against wild bush. In the distance, running,
she could be a big slim bird just before flight.
Here, a wire-cripple –
legs stark as telegraph poles
miles from anywhere.
She circles the pen, licks the wire,
mimics a gum-chewing audience
in the stained underwear of her hide.
This shy Miss Marigold rolls out her tongue
like the neck of a dying bird.
I offer her the fresh salt of my hand
and her tongue rolls over it
in sensual agony, as it must
over the wire, hour after bitter hour.
Now, the bull indolently
lets down his penis like a pink gladiolus
drenching the concrete.
She thrusts her tongue under his rich stream
to get moisture for her thousandth chew.
