A cow so fat from grass,
her milk will last a while.
A cow who’s now a side of beef.
A cow who’s hung by her legs on a hook.
She swings from side to side.
She's skinned. She's veined.
She's white as gauze, with red
on her nubs. A tube of ribs.
Her flesh is set, her blood is dry,
but her milk still flows, still fresh.
It's taken me ten years of writing poetry to write one called "Penis."
ReplyDeleteToday I'm comfortable calling myself a poet.