Human Cows Poem by James McLain

When I was little and small.
There was a hole
in the wood
where there once was a knot.
For my eye.
Long boards of pine.
Knowing not from where it all
came,
once a week, I would fetch some.
This large flat barn.
There inside,
standing as still as still should be
standing.
Each attached to twin cups eyes
closed.
No sound but the pump as they
bounced
up and down.
For hours I could not but watch them.
Torn between wonder and mixed with
some strange curiosity
and still deep inside as I poured it all
out over our
hard to come by box of corn flakes.