My world begins and ends with cows, bloody
in estrous, labor, birth. From rooms beyond
the gates, we name our good heifers. Study
them. Know them. Fence pastures and ponds
for them. Deliver them of calves, of dollars.
We sort bull calves into pens where brawn
matters. Strength of haunch and neck. The smaller
bull calves, the meek, the strange, the non-preferred
ninety-nine percent are cut—we knife their balls
and name them steers. Their short lives blurred
by grain, by gain, by same. We keep bulls’ bulls
to own the fescue fields and serve the herd.
We praise their macho virile selves. They pull
their workweight. Savor flesh beneath cows’ tails—
that’s their career. We want our cow wombs full
of muscled genes. And if our herd sire fails?
We find a younger bull to feed and water.
He butts his head and bellows, paws the trails,
belches. His destiny: a ride to slaughter—
but lust will keep him grazing longer. Grubby,
alive. We name him Bando, Brutus, Buddy,
not cow. Cows are all his working daughters.
