A Brinded Cow

Read backwards if you’d parse the bovine scroll ~
Plasmatic parchment beef-and-leather-bound,
Screed softly lowed while Mary rocked her babe ~
As when St. Peter, hanging by his toes,
Bleeds back through time to purify parched rock,
Spasmodically unscreaming with a smile.

Her spots, like leper’s wounds or leopard’s marks,
Bespeak a blemished nature, apt to harm ~
She moos inverted Om’s, a heathen moan ~
Surely she keeps some darksome portent hid?

But nay, she mows the field and keeps her peace
And tends her children, and our own, with milk ~
Grand doings, earth- or airborne, fash her none ~
What glory to be dappled as a cow!

Rivka Crowbourne is a Catholic poet and aspiring mother who wishes you infinitely well.