A Child Holding Grass

I can't recall what it feels like to be a child,

touching the coarseness of dry grass for the first time,

and smiling without adult worries-

as I take it in my soft hands and walk to the barn.

-

I can't recall what it feels like to be overwhelmed by the stench,

but open the red doors anyway,

and choose the cutest cow, one with a spot shaped like a heart on its head,

and hold out the hard grass with earnestness,

and allow her heavy tongue to graze against my palm

and lap up the grass.

-

I can't recall this childhood in the country,

because I cannot recall the feeling of running back home,

with my slimy palm, empty-handed,

to my own meal waiting on the dining room table.

I can't recall the stuffing, the peas, or the runny mashed potatoes,

nor the squash soup, greens, or the slice of bread and butter.

I can't recall a single meal that could make me feel as full as I did,

when feeding the cows.