I can’t remember calling
out when uncle Mark  
pushed me into the 
feeding chute. Circular jawing,
elliptical “what is a cud?”  

They remain some days 
in my sleep, grinding
square teeth together. 
My uncle smiles wistfully into his can of Stroh’s, 
tells me again about their killer
giant soft eyes with too much  

white on top and peering down
flared pink puppy stomach nostrils,
soft whiskered skin. 
Softer than anything I had ever 
been scared to death of.