The Cow Hand's Wife (Poetry Monthly)

Tedious green sates the lazy cows,

they chew in dull absence and wait

for the next round of milking.

A crow rummages in a fresh pile of digested grass,

a white line crosses the sky, high and far away.

My mother had a lighter touch, cold hands

to rub fat with flour, into crumbs,

two separate things become one.

I have removed my ring,

there’s a white band on my finger, a pale shadow of my wifehood.

I’d like an apron, a marker for work,

something to take off to show that I am done.

A loose cardigan hangs over a dress

from my dancing days,

these clothes are no longer mine.

We’ll take a picnic down to the river,

my pie shall be devoured

and the children will swim.

I’ll sit on the bank, feed the baby,

sink into the emptiness of chlorophyll.