Ghazal, with Cow Burial
        "There are only 31 horse burials in Britain and they are all with men."

Out of a pit, they've found a woman's bones— whittled by time,
bearded with dust, clutching the ambered remains of a cow.

Was she matriarch, widow, wife? Did she die struck by illness or blight?
Archeologists say her wealth and status are proven by this cow.

Some days, I quip to friends and family: my name might as well be
Bob (short for Beast of Burden). But life's yoke is heavier than a cow.

What would I want to take with me? In Chinese burials,
the dead are ferried to the afterlife: not on cows

but in paper limousines inked with symbols for wealth: coins, bills, sweets;
cigars, what one liked here enough to take to there; but not a cow—

In the winding Cordilleras I call home, the dead are neatly tucked among
the hills, with jars of betel nut and agate beads— never with a cow.

A friend reminds me: in Hindu myth, should the population
be in danger, they'll save the women, children, and their cows.

The cow that in this life was cow, does it remain the same? Does it dream
of feathered grass in the fields, of gnats, the low symphony of fellow cows

chewing their cud? They poke at beetles the color of jewels—
embellishment on face plates of sleeping mummies. The cow

as sacrifice, as plenty, as months of food and fat and solid warmth.
And the woman: how was she loved, missed, valued more than cow?

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Copyright © 2019 Luisa A. Igloria All rights reserved
from The Buddha Wonders if She is Having a Mid-Life Crisis
Phoenicia Publishing
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission