The moon is aggressive 
and makes us cry. Wednesday, all day, 

we weep. The girl walks slowly
toward the barn to feed

the filthy animals. Her bucket attached
to an umbilical cord. The new mother

licks a baby goat
fresh from the uterus. The girl

does this work only for accolades. 
She knows she will be praised

for keeping her breakfast down
when the goat is slaughtered

before dinner, belly still distended 
from birth. The barn 

swallows noisily spar. 
The mown hay smells sweet.