There is no always.
—Susanna Sonnenberg
Jump from the loft into plump
timothy mound, forked there
by a bent uncle, ready to feed
piebald Holsteins, delicate
Jerseys, oxen. Green sneezes,
gasps. Mice scatter, chased
by the brindle barn cat,
snatching as her kittens mewl
behind the highest bale.
Light striped with motes
that stick to spider webs
draped across window
mullions. Cows’ sweet breath,
rolling eyes, bawling to be
milked, soft chewing. Hide
and seek in stalls, swing
around stanchions, clatter
downstairs to the granite-
edged basement—heifer
refuge—cool and bugless
in August. Screaming, no
shushing from mothers.
I can taste the dust,
golden as honey.
