In the pale glow of the moon night,
through the pastures I perambulate,
my skin, spotted-yellow lackluster,
always the same dumb look in my big glib cow eyes.

I was fed on that good moooother's milk,
but into something curdled I have churned.
I ruminate on the ache in my empty stomaches,
lachrymose in languor,
lackadaisically seeking to fill my lacunae of lack.

Melting slow as I leave my cool dark valley,
I seek to find a kind milkman
who'll unburden me of the udderly unbearable
heaviness that swells full my breast.

Existing as an oddity,
sculpted from fat by some misguided maker,
looking tonight in the mirror,
hating my cottage cheese thighs,
I am a butter cow, spreading in breadth.


**The Spin Cycle**