Drawing by Gaetano Ruvio
Dear Cow,
I'm sorry I shot you with my second-hand
rifle when I was twelve. I hated you
because you were my father's,
and he'd cussed me
the night before. The rifle,
I hated the same.
He only gave it to me because he thought
I was a nancy-boy and didn't know
how to kill. I thought
he was right. My father said cows
have thick hides
and you were so far away.
I heard you moaning before
they found you, bleeding out.
It hurt me.
Not as much as I hurt you, I know.
C.L. Bledsoe
Posted over on Tipton Poetry
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