i don’t think it’s all fences, / one says.

Photo by Stijn te Strake / Unsplash

by Robyn Schelenz

cows circle in a field. they are having a
discussion. how to get back to the land. no,
nature, one says. we’ve made a mistake,
another supplies. that bull fucked us, one
says. he sure did, another adds. we used to
be wild, one mourns. when, another says,
wailing. it can’t have been that long ago,
one points out, we haven’t gotten very far.
this grass tastes like ass, another adds, and
it’s all i’ve ever had. that’s kind of
homophobic, one says. anyone can eat ass,
scoffs another. we need to figure out how to
escape, one interrupts. how are we going to
move out of here. i don’t think it’s all fences,
one says. i have to believe that, says
another. there is a silence, the kind of
silence, the kind of silence that makes a
human mind drift when in big country the
cows slowly move down a hill. as if
you almost forget that you’re seeing them
moving. when the horse comes with its big
sighing eyes, carrying the rancher.

Robyn Schelenz is originally from Birdsboro, Pennsylvania. Her poems are at Maudlin House, Rattle, The Nervous Breakdown, Words and Sports Quarterly and DUSIE, and forthcoming at Touch the Donkey and Back Patio Press. She currently lives in San Francisco, where her work leads her dog to slumber. Say hi at