E.E. Nobbs

Childless in the City

She has no one to tell

about years of slick-wet babies
shivering in mangers until
they were licked dry in stalls, warmed

by rough, comforting tongues—
calves who sucked golden colostrum
from swollen pink udders;

brown Jersey calves, black-lashed eyes,
muzzles sticky with mucilage,
necks with loose folds of flannel skin.

She remembers them mewling like kittens
and old barns full of green sweet timothy hay

but there’s no one to tell.

— first published in “The New Writer” (U.K.)

← Older Newer →