Not Exactly Shakespeare
Draw an imaginary line between an ear
and the opposite eye, then another line
between the other ear and the other eye,
making an X on her forehead. She’ll be
dead before she hits she dirt. It will drop her,
first shot. Brain shot. So says the vet.
It doesn’t always work that way. Sometimes
they don’t even flinch with that first shot,
just look at you like—why did you do that?—
as a trickle of blood runs down her forehead.
Sometimes it’s awful. Sometimes you unload
six shots in her and she dies a slow death.
I’ve watched Jackman, the meat processor,
do it. It’s an art, and the vet’s right, dead
before she hits the ground. Or he, sometimes
it's a bull or steer. Sometimes a calf. It is
an art, and even after all this time it’s hit
or miss with me, and I don’t much care for it.
You come across an ole girl that you’ve raised
from a calf. She’s humped-up and cold, thin,
when the last time you saw her, a few days ago,
she was fine. Hardware, I’m guessing, ate
a small bit of rusty metal, tore up her gut,
she’s bleeding to death. What are you going
to do but put a bullet in her head? And quick.
And, usually, more often than not, one shot
does it—BAM! But when it doesn’t work, and
when she looks at you with that questioning
look, or gives a little shake of her head, as if
a horsefly just landed, then, then you think—
I’m going to have to live with this for a while.
Poetry by jim
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Written on 2015-01-09 at 15:43
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