(with apologies To K. D. Lang)

 

I admit to being a cow-parasite,
blood burden
on the cow nation.

I confess: None of my best friends are cows.
No cow
has gossiped about anyone I know.
I haven't seen one in a handicapped
space.

I know that all cows feel.
And in the night, dream science
may
one day help them to write very bad poems.

And yet... Those spearpoints
dropped by our ancestors
were never chipped from stone
to pierce
struggling bell-peppers,
or beat back crazed wheatfields,
who'd found
out what bread was.

Besides, I was a tomato in a past life
and died
horribly, in an ancient Greek Salad.
It's my experience as a vegetable

that makes me want revenge.

© Elas Giordano 1995
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