Do You Want the Bones?

Today a cow was killed for me.
A black angus heifer, who grew up
on this land. Neither Verny or I had
the guts to watch the slaughter, which
was done by a husband & wife team.
Already the butcher has called to ask
how I would like her cut up (so many
names for flesh!) & wrapped.

When my grandmother ran the cattle
she knew all of her cows by sight.
She'd hand over the "cow counter"
while she pushed parcels of hay from
the back of her jeep. We would click
& click, watching intently, increasingly
confused, finally deciding there were
twice as many cows as there were.
Yet she never wanted to eat her own
animals, so this will perhaps be the first
time in many decades that a Calaveritas
cow will be eaten in Calaveritas.

Tonight I am having mixed feelings
about the death of the cow, so I walk
up to the barn with a handful of mint.
Everything is drying now, but there
are still lavender brodeia dangling
from the hillsides, & down by the water
lime-colored blackberries are pushing
through the fur of spent stamens.
The place taken in by the warm pockety
night, jangle of crickets and stars.