The Madoc Cows

Their eyes, they're perfect
tide-worn glass
dark tannined waters
At the bottoms of those eyes
ancient creatures
you barely believe in

Soul leaning into the world
those eyes
You want to press them into your forehead
into your chest

Their noses are genital-warm
soft-bodied reef creatures
wriggling blind and hungry across the corals
You wish they were carnivorous, you want so badly
to run your fingers over the rims of those noses

Those eyes
those noses
they're hung on absurdities

This would be true in any case with cows
but it is more true of this small herd

Their bones poke, geriatric
They are understuffed sacks of grain

Those eyes
those noses
two kinds of heaven on a rack of ribs, pre-cooked and carved and hung on a sawhorse

The flies have every reason to be so cocky

These cows, they bunch together like junkies in a squat,
jostle like maggots over thrown clover,
wait like old women in the nursing home rec room for someone to change the channel

Perhaps their eyes will roll off the horizon
and their noses will creep into the sultry undergrowth
when their bodies collapse like broken tables

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about us ::: guidelines ::: contact ::: order ::: chapbooks ::: Monday's Poem ::: Monday's Archive
Monday's Poem
		© 2009 Mike Fralic Mike Fralic is a Canadian poet from New Brunswick via Newfoundland, British Columbia, Manitoba, Saskatchewan and Ontario. He has recently dedicated himself wholeheartedly to writing poetry and stories after years of dabbling while studying and working as an academic. He has a few poems published in Canadian journals. He is currently working on an ever-expanding fiction project as well as quite a few poems that suggest preoccupations with longing, decay, and grazing animals.
The Madoc Cows Their eyes, they're perfect tide-worn glass dark tannined waters At the bottoms of those eyes ancient creatures you barely believe in Soul leaning into the world those eyes You want to press them into your forehead into your chest Their noses are genital-warm soft-bodied reef creatures wriggling blind and hungry across the corals You wish they were carnivorous, you want so badly to run your fingers over the rims of those noses Those eyes those noses they're hung on absurdities This would be true in any case with cows but it is more true of this small herd Their bones poke, geriatric They are understuffed sacks of grain Those eyes those noses two kinds of heaven on a rack of ribs, pre-cooked and carved and hung on a sawhorse The flies have every reason to be so cocky These cows, they bunch together like junkies in a squat, jostle like maggots over thrown clover, wait like old women in the nursing home rec room for someone to change the channel Perhaps their eyes will roll off the horizon and their noses will creep into the sultry undergrowth when their bodies collapse like broken tables about us ::: guidelines ::: contact ::: order ::: chapbooks ::: Monday's Poem ::: Monday's Archive