Monday, March 11, 2013

Another Hirshfield Poem

by Jane Hirshfield

There are times I feel myself cow stripped of her leather.

The hide going on without me,
flensed, vat-dipped, beaten to pliable smoothness.

What remains — awkward, vaguely aware
that something is missing, but what? — continues
its looking outward, evenly breathes.

Sunlight, wind, the black, inquiring noses of others:
sharp now as the knife.

Muscled unjacketed egg.
Impossible butcher's diagram walking.  Beginning to graze.

1 comment:

  1. How graphic. I literally see you, poor cow, just standing there in your ignorance alone.
    Thank you for a new word in my vocabulary, flensed.