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ISSUE:  Winter 2004

Today even the cows are tired
have lain down, tuckered, tucking
their legs beneath them

in prayer. Their thick restless
tongues, tails, their blank
bovine bows.

No wonder we worship cows.

No wonder we let them lick
the salt from our arms.
Or bend beneath them

& borrow their motherhood
make it our own. Have you ever
tasted fresh-pulled milk, slightly

warm? It tastes of whatever
grass you have fed them: blue
or bitter crab. Mint. No wonder

we swallow cows & save
their skins, find out if we fit.


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