(Easter 1991,
Riverton, Wyoming)
From a chicken wire cage on
the bed of an old Ford
the man pulled a struggling doe.
The lady patted her hands together,
bovine eyes twinkling. He took
her money and put it in a cigar
box held together with masking tape
and a tired smile creased
the corners of his gray eyes.
Three round and solemn faces peered
through the filthy window of the cab;
the children knew what the woman
could not—that her money would go
toward this season's feed and seed
and that those rabbits not redeemed by her
and her kind would die on Friday,
to rise again as Sunday dinner.
© 1991, Spencer Keralis;
included in Geography & Circumstance
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted
without the author's written permission.
This poem appeared previously
in the Dry Crik Review of
Contemporary Cowboy Poetry
(Elbert County, Colorado,
Easter 1989)
"Glove up, boys," says the
farmer,
looking out on fields still gilded
with frost. "Ever done this before?"
I shake my head, eyes fixed on the goat,
her sides distended. The
farmer's
son slaps me on the back, hands me a glove.
The hairy old matron rocks in the straw,
reptile eyes slitted with pain.
The other boy takes her head
in his hands,
cooing and sighing. I wait shaking
at the other end. The mother bucks,
lifting stretched belly in one valiant push.
Two red triangles followed by
pencil-thin
legs push through into light. "Grab 'em and pull,"
says the farmer's son, and I do.
In a slick liquid rush, the kid bursts
free; I hold it kicking upside
down, fluid
running from nose and mouth. The mother,
sides sagging, struggles up, bends to lick
steaming fluid from its eyes and ears.
My friend and I lean against a
wall;
I roll off wet gloves to scratch at
a raw squirt of blood that dries on my face,
watch the kid wobble upright, then kneel to nurse.
© 1991, Spencer Keralis;
included in Geography & Circumstance
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted
without the author's written permission.
