It’s not because I dance with liquor that I do—
I’d wear my boots regulation Montana length
but I’m eccentric, I like the sheep, I do.
By law we wear our boots a certain length
because it’s known of men, these parts, they like
the sheep too much; loneliness corrupts our sense,
if not booze. According to some poet we make monsters
in this way, then store them in a jar. What’s
the real story? It’s us. We’re the monsters,
though I don’t know how: nothing has touched
you in a long, long time; an innocent animal goes bleating
right by. Your parts move like something rusted
underneath a pile of leaves. The unspeakable bleating
continues and the anger inside—empty, unrequited
—drives you home in only one direction. Screaming,
not bleating, she lunges free after you are done,
and you don’t ask, whatcha doing on the plains alone?
it doesn’t matter. Could be a ewe, a woman, either one
and its not because I dance with liquor that I do—
I wear my boots past the set Montana length
I’m eccentric, I prefer the sheep, I do.
– Bronwyn Mills, from Night of the Luna Moths