When she dreamt

she became a cow named Bessie,

which wasn't a coincidence since

Mom and Pop kept a Guernsey

she milked each day

as sun pricked the field's edge,

her head pressed to Bessie's side,

milk a tat-tat-tat into tin,

hands always stinking like udders.

In her dreams she spoke in moos,

she'd have a crow on her back,

watch Beavens Road through

charged barbed wire

that shook her each time

her haunches brushed

the rigid spikes until she woke,

under the quilt she shared

with Kathleen in the girls' room,

moonlight on her toes,

windowsill on her elbow.  

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