by Harryette Mullen
For no specific reason I have become one of the city’s unicorns. No
rare species, but one in range of danger. No mythical animal, but a
common creature of urban legend. No potent stallion woven into
poetry and song. Just the tough horny beast you may observe,
roaming at large in our habitat. I’m known to adventurous
wanderers whose drive-by safari is this circumscribed wilderness.
Denatured photographers like to shoot me tipping the bottle,
capture me snorting dust, mount on the wall my horn of empties
that spilled the grape’s blood. My flesh crawls with itchy insects. My
heart quivers as arrows on street maps target me for urban removal.
You can see that my hair’s stiffened and my skin’s thick, but the
bravest camera can’t document what my armor hides. How I know
you so well. Why I know my own strength. Why, when I charge you
with my rags, I won’t overturn your sporty jeep.
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