When my classmate’s cow died
in the name of science they winched it
onto the junior high football field just as
the sky started to spit small white pellets
so we gathered round the bloated heifer, hands
deep in our pockets, chins tucked to our chests
to watch our biology teacher perform
an autopsy. Not to determine the cause
of death, but to show us the warm insides
of something so recently alive, how the body
works, or doesn’t. Things take a weird turn
when George, twice as big as any other kid,
without warning grabs one of the eyeballs
off the bloody tarp and puts it in his mouth
cutting the lesson short, or rather changing it
into a different one about humans and how
they’ll do anything for attention, anything for love
showing you how much they’re hurting or lonely
or both, that toxic concoction of being scared
of everything, and nothing, then being taught
to hide it, hide it as long and as well as you can.