Self-Portrait as Bovine

Trodden—the slope-lands covered and recovered.
I'm chattel to sweet clover. (Verdant nudge
in the nose.) A pasture's one field of attention,
and the periphery's ocean-sway. I'd spend a lifetime looking
for a thing to fill me. As in the gut: the matter won't
break down without rumination. One syllable better
than thousands never heard. Clear to the bones are
moods of weather. A humbled body—legs bowed
beneath, waiting out the storm. When the onslaught's
on, it'll only be over too soon. I'm no rare animal—
an embodiment I'll never get to the bottom of. All
I could offer: contemplation from the meat of me;
seize with teeth and tongue. Consummation's
in the swallow.

Copyright © 2007 Chanda Feldman All rights reserved
from Northwest Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission