my mother is the cow that stands over me
chewing cud, human eyes in her face.
it wasn't the death I wanted
but dreamless, endless sleep
and the pills have provided
a covering for my head
& saliva salve for the torn-bald
ring around my crown
& I wear it soft
with my breathing smothered,
the ferrous taste of cow
somehow more dreamlike
than the scene.
and she soothes me;
the salt content of my blood
her saltlick and my wounds
her softened hands,
her fingers collecting up
my cuts as preciously
as garnets for the savage
who wear such things to war.
O barbarians
& thoughts keep me
from keening into sleep -
Saxons cut the curves
from my skin
and see me silent,
helpless beneath my mother
who makes my bed with bodies
broken in softness
from the sky.
Jennifer Wilson lives in Somerset, England, and spends her days as a faceless retail drone. Her work has appeared in various online journals, a full list of which can be found at jenniferwilsonlit.wordpress.com. She may also be found on Twitter @_dead_swans