by DS Maolalai.
my uncle had hands
strong as wood, sawn
from an old cork tree.
knuckles and tufts
stiff as knots on a riverboat siding
and children as tough as him,
gristly and growing as
strong. it must have been strange
for him, showing this city child animals
which he kept for nothing
but their milk and red flesh.
and I remember thick tongues
and being told they were taken
very young from the mothers
to account for the risk they be crushed.
the little calves, the sookies
with no teeth and just gums
smooth roots out of bogwater
and he gave me their mouths for my hand
and allowed me to feel the strength
of suck they gave desperately,
dying for milk in a small barn sectioned off.
these animals that he took care of
raised, fed, protected, sheltered
with his mother saying chains of rosaries
and his sister answering phones in the city
and marrying my da, a city boy, soft
and as I was, though more prideful.
his son now: this creature
which cried for no reason,
as fat and as fragile
as a dandelion clock, and awestruck
at these wild-eyed
bewildered, bewildering creatures
mad for the comfort of a fist
and taking my outstretched finger
while my uncle pulled food from high
spider-hunted shelves
sharing the nurture to be had.