Issue 7, Winter/Spring 2009

COWS by Amy King

Her moon was a heavy
teacup,
lifted light at the rim
by fainting stars &
milkweed pulse
to smell her hair within.

The cows shock
those of us closest
in the dark.

I take my flashlight,
approach the pasture
and lay 
your beautiful face
in darkness.

Turning to me,
turning to girls
we were sudden, innocent,
and
ready-made
for how, because
they were not,
we switched
the thrills of lace

to powdered wine,
put on my best dressed
mandible and bit
into the sink of his left cheek.

Quiet with eyes,
could I explain
anything at all—
by the rain
of the night
I fall.