Today, 03:20 AM
Pregnant Cow in Backyard
She’s much too big to move: you have to wait
for her to lumber down the wilted fence
that couldn’t hold her if she tried, a cabbage
glowing in your sleeve the only form
of payment. In the country, it is always
raining, claims the sign. Someone’s mom
or grandmother has stitched a memory
across the border where the lichen sinks
its yellow teeth, a bonnet pink and spotted
with decay. Who could ever kiss
her heavy face, which she lifts up to you
so hungry for the apple of your breath,
and not be changed? It’s always spring:
a cloud opens, a miracle falls out.
She’s much too big to move: you have to wait
for her to lumber down the wilted fence
that couldn’t hold her if she tried, a cabbage
glowing in your sleeve the only form
of payment. In the country, it is always
raining, claims the sign. Someone’s mom
or grandmother has stitched a memory
across the border where the lichen sinks
its yellow teeth, a bonnet pink and spotted
with decay. Who could ever kiss
her heavy face, which she lifts up to you
so hungry for the apple of your breath,
and not be changed? It’s always spring:
a cloud opens, a miracle falls out.