Nick Narbutas

THE MOTHER GODDESS SLAYING THE BUFFALO DEMON

Four seasons of mountains
splinter on the head
of a buffalo. The sky burns

its horses out, leaving us
like subjects in an abandoned
laboratory. We had high hopes

for the experiment of teaching
a monk to walk like a horse
with the burden of a plume

of light shocking its spine.
If you see a peacock’s bladed
crown threatening the horizon,

know that I’m thinking of you
as I run my fingers through the wet
fur of the buffalo’s neck

then hold them to the heavy moon
as a wax seal officiating a letter
of mild-to-moderate importance.

*

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