New to the world, our farm,
is this darling—
gilded with placenta, gluey curls
Shelley for its breathlessness, the hazel eyes
that blithely surmise the earth.
Little solemn forehead,
Sore body licked raw, cut loose
from love’s bonds, from the ordinary
ewe who is terrified
of loving what is doomed.
Put away the nipple’s fleshy nub.
Let the formula on the stove boil away.
A painting of a lamb on a dark altar—
that’s what you are.
Puny creature, beginning to tremble
although it is April and warm.
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