by Rebecca Ciota

Rhinoceroses don’t have front teeth. I already know this as I climb past the first barrier and onto the concrete shaped like stones yet painted a deadened yellow. I extend my hand flat. A carrot in the palm. Mwenye rests his head against the metal bars, opens his mouth lazily. Rhinoceroses have a firm ridge instead of teeth. I feel it as his pointed lips close gingerly around my hand. I pull back and there are green flakes among his thick saliva. My eyes sting and my nose itches. I’m told I’m not allowed here.

Rebecca Ciota is a library pre-professional who has a fascination with the fantastical and strange. She received degrees in English Literature and Creative Writing from Oberlin College. She has been published in FLASHSHOT and Catfish Creek.