She was a cow.
Her friends would
Moo at her and she
Would absently
Moo back.
Her husband didn’t
Complain. “I like
The milk,” he was
Known to say.
Why not.
Her mother thought
The whole deal
Absurd, ridiculous, but
Often strung a bell
Around Rita’s neck.
The children in town
Kept attempting
To yank off her horns
And laughed at the three
Pointed hat she wore.
Even the village
priest was known
To include her in his annual
Blessing of the animals.
His eyes closed.
When the wind
Shifted foul odors
From the slaughterhouse
Tickled her nostrils. She kicked,
And hid in the barn.
One dusty day she
Went missing,
And the search began—
No stone, or weed
Left untouched.
No trace of Rita
was ever found
But the townspeople
Knew who took
Her and why.
Although, a missing
Person poster
Glared back at them
From every bulletin
Board, they forgot
Until one day one of
The children mooed,
And grew horns, then they knew
She was inside them,
And they inside her.
