Kamadhenu

I heard there was a sacred cow

That stood nicely for its owner

And mooed without making any real noise.

Her dung was a sacred relic,

enshrined along with phalluses

and pear-shaped bidets.

What a sacred mooing, moue-ing, statute—

The one that describes a barefooted,

bare-bottomed infant who can squat

beside a ditch as soon as he can walk;

who can ride a golden calf

further than his parents said he ought.

Mama pours butter on the phallus

and it erupts and faces east while papa

attends to Sukey of the consecrated urine.

A soft sound, that moo—

A soft tinkling sound. A way around

The muddy intersection

On the bristly back of the baby:

The mother’s extra son, the one that could be sent

(If it were not so sacred)

to the block for the purpose of

Hamburgering, or Jiaozi-ing. Or milking,

if the mood were right.

And standing still, by order of the owner:

a Mother cow. Poor, sad, cow-- barefoot,

unbarren, and too sacred for touching.