The Cows on Killing Day
All me are standing on feed. The sky is shining.
All me have just been milked. Teats all tingling
still
from that dry toothless sucking by the chilly
mouths
that gasp loudly in in in, and never breathe out.
All me standing on feed, move the feed inside me.
One me smells of needing the bull, that heavy urgent
me,
the back-climber, who leaves me humped, straining, but
light
and peaceful again, with crystalline moving inside me.
Standing on wet rock, being milked, assuages the calf-sorrow
in me.
Now the me who needs mounts on me, hopping, to signal the
bull.
The tractor comes trotting in its grumble; the heifer
human
bounces on top of it, and cud comes with the
tractor,
big rolls of tight dry feed: lucerne, clovers, buttercup,
grass,
that’s been bitten but never swallowed, yet is cud.
She walks up over the tractor and down it comes, roll on
roll
and all me following, eating it, and dropping the good pats.
The heifer human smells of needing the bull
human
and is angry. All me look nervously at her
as she chases the dog me dream of horning dead: our
enemy
of the light loose tongue. Me’d jam him in his squeals.
Me, facing every way, spreading out over feed.
One me is still in the yard, the place skinned of
feed.
Me, old and sore-boned, little milk in that me
now,
licks at the wood. The oldest bull human is coming.
Me in the peed yard. A stick goes out from the
human
and cracks, like the whip. Me shivers and falls down
with the terrible, the blood of me, coming out behind an
ear.
Me, that other me, down and dreaming in the bare yard.
All me come running. It’s like the Hot Part of the
sky
that’s hard to look at, this that now happens behind
wood
in the raw yard. A shining leaf, like off the bitter gum
tree
is with the human. It works in the neck of me
and the terrible floods out, swamped and frothy. All me make
the Roar,
some leaping stiff-kneed, trying to horn that worst horror.
The wolf-at-the-calves is the bull human. Horn the bull
human!
But the dog and the heifer human drive away all me.
Looking back, the glistening leaf is still moving.
All of dry old me is crumpled, like the hills of
feed,
and a slick me like a huge calf is coming out of me.
The carrion-stinking dog, who is calf of human and
wolf,
is chasing and eating little blood things the humans
scatter,
and all me run away, over smells, toward the sky.
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