hewitt (on a stump)


Once the milking is done, dinner’s digested, he’ll open up,
rub the scar across his crimson throat, a red trickle
of barbed luck, happened when a bull hurled him into sunrise.

So much frost and horn as he speaks of praying through
many a storm. Says if She called him he would go for sure
and ask only if he could eat with his wife and bless himself.

He says someday She’ll have us, She’ll have us all just the same.
Says he rejoices when blood rises in every rock, stream and calf
cuz that means She is bringing along spring.

He grins and slaps both knees. Said enough for one day.
His eyes close. He listens. His face serene with the
weather-cracked give, the stamina of barn board gone grey

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