rhino

by Ellen Lusetti

Skin, lattice, like the quilt my mother won’t finish.

Wrinkled, like the back of her hands.

Head devoid of hair.

The last time she took me to the zoo,

there was only one rhino.

The exhibit sign read, “vulnerable.”

As she threads her final needle 

with trembling fingers,

lips formed around a curse,

I note the ways our hands

resemble one another,

the deep ridges of our middle 

knuckles, stout, pink beds 

topped with clouded crescents.

A split runs down her thumbnail 

to the nub, threatening breakage 

beyond the keratin, beneath 

the cells of flesh and tolerance.

“They have tools for that,” I tell her. 

She scoffs, for she is the force

that weaves a taut backing

and exacts her isolation,

the lone rhino with armor stitched

to defend but sheer enough to burn.

Ellen Lusetti is a queer writer whose work explores themes of feminism and the nature of morality. She graduated with an MFA from San Diego State University in 2022 and currently teaches writing at New Mexico State University.