The stillborn calf drops
to the ground, all wet
& good, smelling of life
freshly—; out in the fields,
the objective fields, winter
entrenches itself,
frost-heaves between
walls of bright feedcorn,
so gleeful, mistakenly so—;
our best dogwoods lust
after a scent, anything,
anything that isn’t their own,
that doesn’t smell of animal
mating—; oh wind, tell me
the one about dawn again,
rosy-fingered & coy,
tell me about the men
huddled inside a horse,
how the piss dripped
from their ankles—;
March, a stillborn calf,
a heifer bled-out
in labor. We skinned
them both. We draped
their hides over the living
& grafted each to each
as daybreak grafts
to the erratic breakers
& their leaden manes.
Even the magpie put
off its errand of covetousness
& came down from its tree
to pace the stern gravel,
up & back, up & back, waiting
for the postman to arrive.
A Wallace Stegner Fellow, J.P. Grasser is a PhD candidate at the University of Utah, where he edits Quarterly West.