I suppose there must be extraterrestrials

who, among the plethora of UFO specialists,

are cattle mutilators, aliens

for whom it is always harvest season,

each bovine an overflowing cornucopia.

They spend their hours slicing

tongues with surgical precision,

cleaving udders and ears free,

coring anuses and carving out hearts.

They are most neat in their work;

there is never any blood.

So perhaps today,

as I sit at my kitchen table, sipping coffee

and thinking about my departed Petunia,

an alien aboard a flying saucer

moves his scalpel and slender fingers

through the grey cathedral of her tongue.

Here are the great doors of her calfhood,

the sweet taste of warm milk

sucked from her mother’s teat.

And here are the pews of summer grass

cool and verdant against the pulse

of the morning sun. And here

is a hand–painted icon of the two of us,

her mottled snout cozy

in my hands as I tilt

my head to kiss her.

I want you to know, as you hover there

with your scanners and microscopes,

there’s no need to kneel here and pray.

She was simply a cow, born of the earth.

But do be respectful. Whisper.

Pay to light a candle or follow

the self–guided tour. Tell your friends

you found something that stirs you.