Issue #54


Authors

Little Moo and Pen

monochrome world. blotches on a bovine. don’t ask a beast

of burden about its abuse. I’d have cows just to butcher them. fingering

puddles of blood like piano keys. dismissing blindness in fury.

my favorite color was red because it was the first one I saw.

when I was a baby, my grandfather gave me my first stuffed animal.

it was a calf. when I was old enough, I named her Little Moo. I’ve had her

all my life, and at times little else. one time, I left her on a lamp

and burned her cheek. she’s never mooed, despite the brown crusts

I still cover with beige bandages. her placid eyes. at least she’s never

judged me. even when I was a boy about his bullshit. denying

wounds. never studying how to dress them. never sharing

the spine-spiking weight with others. knew you weren’t like the others

when we met at Aslan Brewing. neither of us liked beer. I stared

at your butt every time you left your seat for the bathroom,

hoping you’d look back. a butcher values prime cuts. seasoning

you with sight. but seriously, I never saw you as a piece

of meat. I saw you then and haven’t stopped since. haven’t wanted

to see anything else since that night, when you guessed my favorite color

 

was green. when you told me why, I wanted to care for you,

 to carry you forever. seeing in my stead not a beast or burden

but gardener. still the tatters of the butcher’s apron. bleaching blood

to no avail. your active and forgiving eyes. they study my shaking hands

that pinch pine-needles. still learning to sow sutures. when you saw

Little Moo, you said she needed a companion. on our third date

we bought stuffed animals. you wanted us to have elephants because

they never forget. perhaps I will never forget the bleeding, the circus

of carcasses, hanging by hooks. but when you drape yourself to me,

apron-tight, and your bangs curtain my widow’s peak, I’ve got

 

an attire. salvation. my fortunes: salt and silk. pollen-stars populating

mossy mountainsides. mists that glisten leaves hanging on branches

well as the ones that have fallen.

we keep a journal of all our firsts and favorites, fern-green binding

 

the covers. the first time we ventured a meadow, we made a beast

with two backs,

 

 

 

surrounded by sun-bathing wolves, howls serenading

 

me into

surrender.

the first time I said I love you, what I really meant

 

 

 

was that I’ve been killing all my life for this. the first time I saw green,

 

 

I didn’t deserve it.

 

 

 

but your force found me—forgiveness in form

 

 

 

of trumpeting jade elephants, sunflowers bowing to kiss shamrocks, vines cuddling

 

your forehead like a wedding veil—calls of the wild

 

 

remind me that I am human, that we are

chrysalis, that wolves                

 

 howl to hone location

 

and cows moo

 

when desperate for a mate. when I think of you, I grin in silence. guzzling green. from my gums,

leaves sprout. cocoons round canines.

 

when I think of you

 

 

I am imprinted. I am already

 

found—

 

 

falling feet-first into seafoam, the waves of mint.

 

when you bought me an elephant, I named it Pen.

 

 

 

when I pick up a pen, I write

 

towards a wild forever.

To My Father

Pule