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.
Wow! So visceral and emotive.