Natalie Eleanor Patterson

COMING OF AGE

In my dream I see a field of cows,
newborns trussed for the slaughter
to sharpened pikes.

Their knees have the boniness
of elbows, the trembling of hands.
One has a pink bow in its dirty hair.
That one makes strawberry milk.

The whole pasture. Who let
these girls out of the house?
Where are their mothers?

You and me, picnicking
on the killing floor.

I lean into you and whisper
that we should make love.
Don’t you remember, you reply.
We already tried that and you cried
the whole time.

Finally, the stun
gun clicks.