Finally, a new poem in the dry desert of nonpoetry
Learn the Language of Your Meat
Go into the weeds. Find the cow
lying there, open her mouth.
Take out her small voice, stuff
her whispers in your pocket.
Slap her hollowed-out rump
with the flat of your palm,
slap until the dust flies, until
she rises. Lay in the crushed
circle of grass. Put your ear
to the earth, hear the bees
burrowing there. Make your lips
form those shapes, your
tongue an engine of blood
revving against your teeth.