Cold hydraulic hand drops her body            
onto the bloodied floor–
pigs, sheep and other cows
thrown in a pile.
Hand the driver the paperwork,
plus the cheque, the charge to remove.
Pots of glue are cheap, leather jackets are not,
and not a penny we have made
from this black cow who in eight years
had seven expensive still-borns.

In spring she watched
as the other calves found their legs.
Felt indifference when the calves started school,
where graduation is awarded in three different categories:
medium, rare and well-done.
Her first calf, all red
bar a white tuft on his head,
killed her.

A lone magpie squawks from a bare tree
as I am handed my receipt. Record of transaction
if officials from the Department inquire
as to BNNZ-00-12T.
The calf looks on,
deteriorating behind a closed grey gate.
Snow briefly falls.

In the fields the sun casts long shadows
of trees and sheep. A breeze blows.
The work continues.

Next morning
no need for the chain
that dragged his mother with the tractor
to the concrete yard.
A length of rope will do.
Not yet a number in the system,
the only record of its existence–
a drag mark through the ****.