#135 Kevin Brophy 'Cow'

#135 ‘Cow’

They leave their washing on the line all day.

There it is twisting in the wind and dancing

to the cockatoos’ screeched nursery rhymes.

They’ve put the red pillowslips out, flicking

at me now, and little red underpants bounce

and wink among the socks and greyed tops.

They do it to torture me, they must. Left out

all day, and so red it makes me want to chop

it up and tear it down, spear it on my horns

or wear it, a bloody drape across my back.

Their washing fights me, blinds me, ties itself

in knots around my head until I have the red,

red pillowslip beneath my hoof and the little

pants in my mouth. They taste of, they taste

of, they taste of nothing much at all, just red.