by Claudia Monpere

 

No apology
for the constancy of their eating,

these cows. Blackbirds
in the hollow of clouds.

Alders in April sun.
You could stand

among the bluestem and foxtail
and bless the beginning,

ocean drifting comb jellies,
feather stars and sea lilies.

Moss spreading its spores.
Hexagonal cells buzzing honey.

Beak and claw, fur and teeth.
And these cows

chewing eight hours a day.
Eyes jeweled with flies.


CLAUDIA MONPERE’s poems and fiction appear in The Kenyon Review, New Ohio Review, Prairie Schooner, The Massachusetts Review, The Cincinnati Review, and elsewhere. Poems are forthcoming in Ruminate and The Bellevue Review. She recently completed a Hedgebrook residency in poetry, and teaches writing at Santa Clara University.


Photo: “B&W Cows” by Hans Splinter