cow-tipping

dreaming the impossible
i always look 
at the spaces between fingers.
consider what i could topple over.
then remember a photograph
of my grandmother. alone in italy
in front of the leaning tower
arms behind her back. we are all hiding
our desire to see animals knocked
off their hooves. i make a fist & practice 
fending off a hoard of crows.
in the field behind my parent's house
cows roamed. discussed armageddon 
& read each other's spots 
like tea leaves. i was fourteen
when i first trekked out there
in the sharpened autumn cold.
felt the harvest earth crunch 
beneath my shoes. cows. wide-eyed.
a flock of mothers. their breath making
brief clouds. most of them, 
already laying down. i kneed. joined them.
wished to sleep amoung their big bones.
closed my eyes to picture cows
tumbling like grocery bags. then,
head over hoof. rolling toward
oblivian. me too, nothing more 
than a stray wheel. i wanted to lead
each of them one by one into my bed room.
turn off the lights 
& feel their comforting weight.
instead i left without a single body
unturned. tripped on a stone
by the edge of the field. 
wiped my blooded hand on my thigh
& scooped myself back into 
the dark of the house. imagined my family 
all as cows. pushing my brother
into my father. cow dominos.
tipping one into the next.