The Cow
Across her teeming back I strew
the poison cure.
Her tail turns still.
Soon she will be less thin.
But then again the black buzz,
the keen upheaving bone.
And though I glove my hands
I cannot help but breathe.
The sharp dust drifts,
each time deeper.
Don't do it, says my husband
who loves me, hearing
the hundred tiny cuts in
my throat. He does
not know how it feels
when the flies lift.
Lola Haskins
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-cow-6/
