Bloat
I remember in June
How the clownlike sun blew
Dead cows up like balloons.
We tiptoed close like boys
Who think they’ve found a bomb.
Flies blotted out the eyes
And danced along the tongue’s
Long pink proscenium.
She who had turned the grass
Into milk that was turned
In turn into money
That bought our clothes and toys
Was not only dead but
Getting deader, her teats
Jutting lewdly out like
The pricks of pissing teens.
Something was filling her.
Something in her wanted
Out. We didn’t dare touch
Her for fear of setting
Her off, but got as close
As we could, close enough
For the flies to try us.
1 Comment
No posts
Wow! So visceral and emotive.