Respect

I have cave paintings on the inside of my skull

The Return of the Herd by Pieter Bruegel (1565)

Respect

by Bob Hicok

Cows are cool enough to be born
wearing their leather jackets—the milk ones
behind us are quiet and scholarly
over their plates of grass, while the beef ones
below often scream like they’re young
and watching The Shining for the first time—
it’s as if they know the blades are coming
and scream’s not quite the right word, as saying
I have cave paintings on the inside of my skull
tells you I hail from hunter-gatherers
but isn’t meant as a description
of the actual decor—the thing
about the screaming is it makes me order
a bowl of beets and mushroom soup
at the restaurant when otherwise
I might have asked for the waiter’s heart
on a spike—it’s a rhythmic sound
that has blood and rust deep inside it—
almost a catching of breath
on razor wire or waking from a dream
of falling down an elevator shaft
to find you’re naked and have
to give a speech while falling
down an elevator shaft—it makes the bucolic
creepy in the dark and creepy
under full sail of sun—but not the milk cows—
the milk cows are half ton whispers—
their udders seem to levitate
and meditate—I look at them as clouds
that have made emergency landings—
that have slightly more modest ambitions
for rain and shade but nonetheless
are still eager for a life as weather—
this is just a little of what it’s like
to live in what we call “the country”—
think of it as a painting in a museum
that sometimes smells of shit and sometimes
a bear walks through the painting
and mauls the dew and sometimes vultures
weave a circle in the air and you wonder
below them, are they here for me
and I’m overdressed for the demise—
as I’m telling you I plan to wear
a tuxedo, both to yours and mine

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First Published in Poetry City, USA, Vol. 5