They follow their mothers’ directions in every particular
except the universal order: live forever.
On steep hills in fog the sheep like minor buffalo
await destruction. Lambs hunch on damp grass;
their back legs comfort their front legs.
I swaddled the coffee press in a tea towel
& now behold this glass pot of Irish yogurt
with more joy than I’d have given a child of my own.
Some of us have always known we’re not mothers:
Everest or a lap across the Channel, that sublime
vulnerability holds nothing for me.
No law can change the law of my body.
Calling meh, meh, the perfectly-proportioned lambs
have no idea why they were brought to this Earth.
Nor do I. But it wasn’t to be a sheep.