I cashed in all my chips and turned
your new girlfriend into a dun cow.
Now you love her even more, your sweet
cow-girl. You walk her through town each dawn,
your pockets packed with clover. You take her
girlfriend’s four stomachs. Evenings you play her
Dixieland LPs and sway together in the parlor.
The whole town is perplexed by the mechanics
of your fucking, but agrees your new girlfriend’s felted
ears are comely when she flicks them fro, and her tongue
is a wide, wild nocturne. Among us, you and I
and your new girlfriend have eight nipples, sweet, and piles of unfinished
mending. Unstitched, one of us is kitchened and you asleep
in a salted bed, forgetting we two made the blue one blue once. We
pastured on want once and didn’t lick clean. I’ve traded
magic for rope-lengths. I’ve traded nothing for less.
I make mouths in mirrors, now. I’m practicing my lows.