Feeding Frida’s Cows
The bus which crippled Frida when she was eighteen
sits rusting in a field not far from here,
surrounded by bluebonnets and cow pies.
The barbed-wire fence displays
a Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted sign.
The sky bares knuckles,
clouds club and kick wayward birds.
Buzzards rise on summer thermals,
duck out of the way of Southwest Airlines,
drop back down, retrieve a carcass.
I throw bales of hay in the back of the truck
and the dog leads the way.
The cows follow me to the hillside---
their big eyes bigger than my heart.
They can hear hot oil inside a motor.