6/5

cow-tipping

the field was full.
in the night i became
only my hands. a scattering
of stars. the moon's sideways grin.
how my father would
sip from green bottles 
until fish lived in his eyes.
the corn field's song in summer
was one of insect legs & violins.
i only wanted to know the animals.
their hooves in the dirt. 
barn's neon glow. walking towards them
thinking, "i wish i was a farmer."
romanticizing roots & dirt. 
the farms around where i grew up
are centuries old. graveyards sit 
in the center of most. crooked-tooth headstones.
i ambled through a little cementery 
to reach the cows. their eyes 
had birds perched inside.
little cages. a downpour of feathers.
putting my hands on their backs
& considering pushing. the plummet 
that could follow. bundles of bones.
my heart coming apart
like a ripe orange. how could i 
have wanted so badly 
to over turn their knees? 
was it my own disasters 
boiling over into finger bones?
i wept with the cows.
all the meat on their bodies.
the jars & jars of milk.
my own body, a crooked-tooth cementery.
a bottle-opener. i asked the cows,
"tell me how you sleep?"
the cows replied, "we do not."
together we ate hay. watched as the moon
folded up like a dinner mat.
somehow, i woke up in my bed.
feet still kissed with soil.
the smell of wet grass
beneath my nails. nothing
was overturned. all hooves earth bound. 
stepping through hushed breeze. 
grass moving with spirits.

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