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don-bouchardPoems
The rough draft Stillborn lies: Five paragraphs Fully formed, Topic Safely stated, Three points, Strung in line Tense & form Aligned monotony. No life here, Words penned, Five paragraphs Double spaced, Properly indented, Grammar neatly safe. Enough, and without risk. Nothing here to see. No life here Nothing here to see I am twenty-one again, Standing in a chill March barn, Steam and blood scent, Obstetric chains straining On the winch I crank To save a calf born breech, Rear heel pads pointing up. The strain and pull exhaust me, Mother staggering in the stanchion, I wrestle against time, about to break. The calf’s hips stall against the cable strain Then slip as something pops... Whether baby or mother I am uncertain. Whooshing, the calf slides out and down, Cable and chain, Blood and fluid, Umbilical stretching, Last tethering connection. The newborn lies un-shivering, Inert upon wet straw. I slip off the chains, Grasp the slippery feet above Jellied hooves, Hoist the calf, Hang it head down, Slap it against the wall, Chant, “Breathe!” Breathe! Breathe! Breathe! Desperate miracle! The lungs gurgle, Raspy coughing, Gargling mucous, Air brings life. The mother, Eyes rolling, Murmurs. Forty years later I stare: Stillborn paper Delivered late and lifeless, Having form, Technically correct, Lying breathless on my desk. Were I to slap it against a wall, The lines would still be dead. So, what to do about resuscitation? I cannot slap the paper, Nor the student. My dry eyes tire Following inanity. DB Dec. 8, 2021
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Dec 8, 2021
Dec 8, 2021 at 4:40 PM UTC
Still Births
The rough draft Stillborn lies: Five paragraphs Fully formed, Topic Safely stated, Three points, Strung in line Tense & form Aligned monotony. No life here, Words penned, Five paragraphs Double spaced, Properly indented, Grammar neatly safe. Enough, and without risk. Nothing here to see. No life here Nothing here to see I am twenty-one again, Standing in a chill March barn, Steam and blood scent, Obstetric chains straining On the winch I crank To save a calf born breech, Rear heel pads pointing up. The strain and pull exhaust me, Mother staggering in the stanchion, I wrestle against time, about to break. The calf’s hips stall against the cable strain Then slip as something pops... Whether baby or mother I am uncertain. Whooshing, the calf slides out and down, Cable and chain, Blood and fluid, Umbilical stretching, Last tethering connection. The newborn lies un-shivering, Inert upon wet straw. I slip off the chains, Grasp the slippery feet above Jellied hooves, Hoist the calf, Hang it head down, Slap it against the wall, Chant, “Breathe!” Breathe! Breathe! Breathe! Desperate miracle! The lungs gurgle, Raspy coughing, Gargling mucous, Air brings life. The mother, Eyes rolling, Murmurs. Forty years later I stare: Stillborn paper Delivered late and lifeless, Having form, Technically correct, Lying breathless on my desk. Were I to slap it against a wall, The lines would still be dead. So, what to do about resuscitation? I cannot slap the paper, Nor the student. My dry eyes tire Following inanity. DB Dec. 8, 2021
The lines blur between two forms of struggle. Resuscitation is only possible if the basic spark of life resides.
#cattle#writing#life#death
don-bouchard
Written by
don-bouchard
66/M/American
Dec 8, 2021
Dec 8, 2021 at 4:40 PM UTC
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