By Satoshi Iwai
I stole a giraffe from the public zoo and hid it in the kitchen of my apartment. The kitchen was so small that the giraffe had to stick its head out of the window. From morning till night, the ex-public animal had been watching glassy buildings and busy streets. I wanted the giraffe to enjoy life outside the cage, but its long-eyelashed eyes looked rather sad. One day, I drove the giraffe to the coast. No sooner than had we arrived at an empty beach, the giraffe delightedly walked into the water. As the giraffe made its way, the brown patches peeled off its body and turned into dozens of public servants, who immediately started blaming each other “This is your fault!” “No, your fault!” Step by step, the little head went further, the slender neck got shorter. The setting sun lavishly colored the waves. The giraffe never looked back at me. Finally, it disappeared.
Satoshi Iwai was born and lives in Kanagawa, Japan. He writes poems in English and in Japanese. His English work has appeared in RHINO, Small Po[r]tions, Barrow Street, and Poetry Is Dead.
