Changeling by Michael Murray

When I was wee, no bigger than a toast rack
with crumbs for dreams and a blob of butter
where my heart was, I had a tail then
on the back of my head, and my ten wee toes
were enquiring tongues. My hands were hooves;
my hair was the hair of a brindled cow.

I did not mind this; I did not know to mind.
And so the years passed and my lovely tail fell
with a soft flunk on the floor one day. I wept then,
to see it go. Then slept a sleep of seven years.
Next morning I woke alone.

How I had loved my brindled hair, my hooves and tongues;
but that night all parts returned to fields and air, and
left me alone, a sprawling baby helpless human.
And none have ever returned to me here, and I have grown
more single than I ever was.