Until the Cows Come Home
By Julia Van Develder
Oct17
I see a cow on the news
and decide that now’s the time
to give up eating meat.
The anchor’s point
is lack of proper oversight
in meat packing plants
but the picture on the screen
is just this one cow
dazed and disbelieving
eyes rolled back
stumbling up the ramp
to the slaughtering chute
prodded by a man with his face
fuzzed out.
It looks to me
like the cow is wondering
how it came to this
how in a million years
she ended up here
in this cement stall
waiting for the ax to fall
instead of on a lovely farm
somewhere near Burlington, Vermont.
I know, I know---
cows don’t use words like lovely.
I plead guilty
to anthropomorphizing.
But pain is pain
and the cow was in it.
That much is clear.
I won’t lie to you---
I love cow meat---I do.
I already miss it
just like I still miss cigarettes.
I wish they could make
safe cigarettes.
I wish they could make
blue cheese bacon burgers
at the Racoon Saloon
without killing cows.
I wish a lot of things.
I wish fall and spring
were longer and winter shorter.
I wish I’d had the guts
to emigrate to New Zealand
when I had the chance.
I wish wishes were horses
so beggars could ride.
But what’s the point?
I could wish until the cows come home
and if they ever do, I could not eat them.
I could do that.