Each cow has a hairstyle
and walks in high heels,
bearing a handbag – the reticulum,
in which she transports her chewing gum.
They lick their nostrils
with liquorish tongues.
‘You like that, detective? Never turn
your back on a cow or assume she’s tame.
My mother was trampled,
had to be pulled
free from the herd.’ The kodak field
was suddenly filled
with black and white Holsteins
like standing stones
around us, their sileage breath
sweet, oppressive. ‘Your sister confessed…’
‘This village had already died.
One prion, detective, has killed a trade:
the butcher wielding his favourite knife,
a food chain. A language. A way of life.’
Suddenly a restless cow reared,
starting a huffing stampede
towards us. Shouting, the farmer tore
a heifer aside by her jigsaw ear,
and, holding me roughly by the hand,
showed me how to stand my ground.
We played musical statues with the herd,
which froze every time he uttered a word.