Sunday, February 10, 2013

My Poetry: The Woman with the Knive

While Sheri and I lived in Duckwater, Nevada we attended a roundup to help.  A roundup is where the ranchers brought the cattle in from the range, to brand the new calves.  This was something knew to us as we were not native. 

The Lady with the Knife

Dust stung the air
the wind kept it there,
brushed up by horses and cows
in the isolated place; inhabited now.

They had come to mark the calves.
She had come to steal their laughs.
Her shiny knife glowed in the morning light
the calves, held down, could not fight.

And so that day, with a grin on her face
That overweight lady, made them grope.
The bawling calves, open to her knife, unprotected.
A calf's life, controlled, manipulated;
by blades and knives they lost their hope
and so not bulls, but steers corrected.

And on that day the bucket collected
the testicles, which had lost their potential.
How the losers were selected, I do not know
but from those calves was taken their bull;

They live only for their muscles
which will be nurtured, and then used
harvested, at the meat plant the are destined
there into packages for store and delicatessen.

But that day on the Nevada desert
Dead, dead were their nuts,
tossed like oysters into a bucket
and so their right to sire spent.

And on the face of the lady with the knife
A grin, as she harvested, and collected
Made you wonder what in her life
about men needed corrected.

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