In the morning, I watched the rancher
pull the calf from its mother—
his arms submerged to the shoulder,
trying to right the knobby creature
unsuccessfully. I knew the moment
I saw the cow—alone in the unbearable
sun, the strange pendulum of flesh
swinging below, her bloody time
keeper—the calf wouldn’t make it.
It was the summer I bled first, too,
and I believed it made me wise. Perhaps
it did: I found the cow. I roped her neck
and led her home, dark fluid
speckling the gold grass like crumbs
no one would follow. The day plowed
further into heat. The barn wavered
as if behind a curtain
of water. The calf emerged
legs first, a small bundle of brushwood.
The body slipped out as afterthought,
pooled in the straw like a towel used
to clean up some terrible violence.
The mother turned to lick the dead thing
clean. The barn walls leaned in like funeral
guests—desperate for closeness and unable
to say anything that would make a difference.
Steven Luna, “To Our Loved Ones: Margarita Luna 2”
Kiyoko Reidy is a writer and educator from East Tennessee. Her poems and nonfiction have been published in Crazyhorse, The Cincinnati Review, and elsewhere. She currently lives in Nashville.