They slept beneath a heavily-discounted Patagonia fleece of still grey water. We came in the night, letting down a long slender ladder. A few of us made small talk while dethawing the strawberry milkshakes. I just watched their climbing bodies like the tears of luminous warehouses. Then it was haircut time, though Angelica kept whining after a tusk eviscerated her lower lip, as if her lovely teeth were not now lovelier flaming Cheeto swans; we had to lock her in the washing machine, big thumping like ogre feet—mommy and daddy could hardly wait for the bedtime story to end. Tufts of fur filled the floors with tort liability, shriveling like flowers of instant ramen shrimp. Their cold odorous eyes repeated in waves as I waved adieu and you ate their hair.
Elijah Giuliano. Suburbs, suburbs, no donkeys.