T. R. Poulson
T. R. Poulson, a University of Nevada alum and proud Wolf Pack fan, supports her writing habit by delivering for UPS in Woodside, California. Her work has appeared in various publications, including Best New Poets, Gulf Coast, and Booth. She is currently seeking a publisher for her first manuscript, tentatively titled At Starvation Falls. Find her at www.trpoulson.com and on social media as @trpoulson.
A Calf With Bent Forelegs Can't Be Born
The girl holds the black tail in both hands
while her father reaches deep inside
her favorite cow. His John Deere hat curves
a shadow on his nose. The long plastic glove
glints pink on his arm. Can you unbend
the legs? She forbids her fear from snaking
up the tail. It’s okay, she whispers. Twoee’s ears
flex back. Her black and white tassel spirals
to nothing. The girl says nothing until hooves
poke out and her father slips the calf out
on the ground. Twoee paws, demands
they hand over her red, white-faced calf.
She doesn’t look dead, the girl says. Flowers
breathe fragrance around her grandma’s blue
coffin, her leaf-embroidered dress. The girl
lays her hands on her grandma’s. Her mother
adds her hands, as do her sibling and cousin
and father. A pile of hands like players huddled
living over dead. At the grave, the dirt is missing.
The pastor says it will be brought back
later. A sanitary burial. Somebody laughs
as prayers circle. In the girl’s head, M-words
murmur to the tune of “Immortal Invisible
God Only Wise.” Malignant, mastectomy,
metastatic. She insists they wait for the dirt.
Two weeks later she finds Twoee dead, her tongue
long in the dirt, skin tight, one eye down,
the other bulging in black fur. A clog
had blocked her burps and gas ballooned
her gut. If she’d found Twoee sooner, perhaps
they could have stopped the bloat with a hose
down her throat or a blade in her side. The tractor
drags a thousand pounds of flesh. Beneath
the curved moonslice the red and white orphan
looks between two knotty poles and bawls.
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