Young muscle shows
on the shoulders of the calf,
as the farmer, his daughter, and wife,
gather to herd him toward the barn.
He balances on three legs,
the left front eaten by a machine.
He stands alone,
massive head hanging low.
Later, in the house,
we did not talk about it.
Neither compassion
nor condemnation came
but I thought my tears
were a sign of weakness.
Neither farmers
nor their daughters
weep over the slaughter.
Years later in the city,
I come home to a mouse
stuck on a board I’d left as a trap,
her belly sliced open
by her own struggling claws.
Bash her head in, end her suffering,
I think, then shrink back,
my heart falling fast.
I think of calling
the landlord,
then turn,
and hammer out
tiny pieces of courage
from a hundred hidden
corners to do the difficult,
and necessary thing.
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The realism in this poem made me catch my breath (twice).
I feel the writer’s nausea and grief. On one hand, I am left with not knowing what to say; but then it evokes my own life experiences, too, as a way to make sense of it. I end up thinking that maybe the Native Americans had it right. They greatly revered the buffalo, admired its qualities, gave thanks for it–and yet depended on its slaughter for their lives. Maybe if we had a way to ritualized our respect and recognize the sacrifice…
Thank you for your comment. I agree that Native American spirituality that holds that all life is sacred and not to be taken for granted could go a long way in healing some of the tensions evident in this poem.