by Lucie Brock-Broido

    All about Carrowmore the lambs

    Were blotched blue， belonging.

    They were waiting for carnage or

    Snuff. This is why they are born

    To begin with， to end.

    Ruminants do not frighten

    At anything——gorge in the soil， butcher

    Noise， the mere graze of predators.

    All about Carrowmore

    The rain quells for three days.

    I remember how cold I was， the botched

    Job of traveling. And just so.

    Wherever I went I came with me.

    She buried her bone barrette

    In the ground's woolly shaft.

    A tear of her hair， an old gift

    To the burnt other who went

    First. My thick braid， my ornament——

    My belonging I

    Remember how cold I will be.