He holds out his lips,
this wreck of a rhinoceros,
dried-up gravel skin, limping with a crooked spine—
but who knows, maybe he’s happy
kept like this in the Delhi zoo. Here he walks
like a fat man in a crisp red sports jacket
who doesn’t think of himself as fat — he’s so pleased
with the virile cut of his new sports jacket…

Flabby cracked lips
shudder open, showing us a sharp triangular
smiling tongue. He keeps lifting up
those thick scabby rough lips, wobbling
with such a tender gesture,
an emotion so strong
the lines around his neck are suddenly delicate —
so graceful — he could be a young flamingo, a weeping willow,
leaving no doubt
that he wants to be caressed. There’s plenty
of grass around him
but he won’t have it, he wants
to be hand-fed, wants his forehead stroked.
He’ll put up with having his horn pulled at,
pretend his head can be jerked around
by the scrawny schoolboys — as long as they feed him,
the tips of their fingers arousing and soothing his mouth.