LOVING A WILD GIRL

Rapunzel’s locks at the end sport a brawny, veiny claw with many thin fingers holding my hand like a crosshatched drawing. Something in the ardor of her grip is interfering. It may be liquid nitrogen. If my love for her now explodes into an unflattering color chart it would just weird me out. She’d be OK with it. She grew up with elves who mistook her grandfather’s old wood-and-copper accounting apparatus as a sex machine, she can take anything. She’d road-tripped with rabies, actual rabies – those molecules on Dancing with the Stars – and got mobbed at every picnic site by chipmunks who cried in chipmunk voices for her blood, for her blood, for her ‘blood pu-dinnnnnng.’ There isn’t anything she hasn’t already looked at with burning lust in her eyes. Including chipmunks.