Karen J. Weyant
The Night We Visited the World’s Largest Fiberglass Cow
Midnight quivered like the shots
we swallowed hours before.
I combed a white moth from my hair,
watched three fly away from my hand.
You slapped a mosquito, flicked
at gnats while you clasped a lit cigarette.
Dark hooves glistened with dew,
grass yellowed beneath the belly
and glassy point of a tail.
Three weeks until college would start,
and you mimicked what you thought
they would think of country boys.
Pushing against the thick shank,
you yelled, There ain’t no tippin this cow,
a fake accent the night gulped down
in echoes, the air smelling like sour milk.
Years later, when the dairy closed its doors,
and the statue was torn down in a single day,
I remembered how you stalked away,
paint flecks clinging to your beard,
your heavy boots crushing the ground.
When you turned back to look at me,
You were suddenly sober,
your eyes a fiberglass stare.