Wednesday, August 07, 2013




Before she died, my mother told me
I'd make the monster that would kill me, 
so I knew this was someone else's death
creeping into my field, butchering my cow. 
I recognized its lone eye and two mouths.
Perhaps it mistook the lowing for the call 
of its own kind. I didn't mind the heifer--
she'd been sick for weeks, her death a mercy--
but her calf circled, refusing to leave even 
as the creature pulled out its mother's tongue, 
fed one of its mouths and moaned from the other. 
The intestines glowed dully in the moonlight. 
The calf bawled. The disappointed mapinguari 
sat, thousands of worms rising out of the split 
heart it held, testing the strange night air. 
I've outlived all the miracles that came for me. 
My mother was wrong and not wrong, 
like the calf who approached the monster 
and licked the blood from its fingers.

0 poetic mutterings: