Io
flat cow skull-bone trying to feel through coarse fur
his knuckles against her brow, the stroke-soft soothe-speak;
flat cow skull-bone gathering all thought, all nerve to accurately feel,
re-feel, focus, the small girl memory of his musk man-smell
when brush of his fingers on her hot forehead would soothe her;
flat cow skull-bone housing gold eyes, gold brimming wet,
black-lashed water, dripping gift-tears onto his hands: this one is sad,
says the father. Dull curved cow horns glance at air, turn wide
empty circles, want to link the once-known of arms with his
which reach up to soothe her; stout cow neck’s throat-choke
when he offers her the sweetest blades of bitter grass knowing
cow tongue’s stoat body squats inside her, cannot be lashed
into supple word-sound. Small word, smallest in the long poem,
carrying on its slight frame the whole yoke of utterance and desire
gifting the soon-to-be exiled poet a yearning to shape into words,
into a dazzling white meadow of words to sing of words’ torpor.