The winter issue of The Cincinnati Review is up, and you can read my poem "The Shroud and the Anti-Knot" on their website! I wrote it a few years ago and had almost forgotten how it went, but rereading it now, it seems to be about, like, surgery maybe? Also death? Who knows. I had been locked up in my house for months at that point, cultivating a long white beard of insanity. Which reminds me, a while back, the editors actually asked me for a short statement to accompany my poems. Sure! I said. Here's an unsettling cow metaphor that I think will be really perfect. It went:
I spend my days in a tiny room, sitting perfectly still as a heifer in a field, occasionally lifting my front right hoof to write notes on small slips of paper. When I have a lot of these notes, I chew them until a literary "cud" forms, and then we kiss, and I pass the cud into your mouth.
I liked it because you often read contributors' comments that are boring, but how often do you read one that is disgusting? I personally would find it refreshing. Anyway, they patiently responded, "We actually meant, you know, a sober examination of your process?" They were so kind about it, and I had been such a bad animal, that a tear slipped down my bulging cheek. I sat down to write something serious, and my milk sang sadly into the pail of Explanation.