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      October 29, 2013LaborAnnie Mountcastle

      We pull the skin off Jeremiah
      as he hangs upside down
      from the tractor. His mother
      paces, stomps her feet, calls out
      to him from the other side
      of the barn wall, but he is dead
      already, blood spilling across
      new snow. Her child is one year
      old, little steer horns poking
      through his furry temple.
      The great-grandmother whose
      farm we’re visiting can’t
      afford to feed all the animals
      this winter. She keeps the mother,
      kills the son. Save the tongue,
      she says. We’ll save everything
      we can. It’s so cold, and the work
      is hard before us. We carve
      through the carcass, and still
      the pieces are almost unbearable.
      On three we bend and lift, gloved
      hands against bone, to make
      our way down the cellar steps
      while the white Scottie laps up
      the loss, body-deep in blood,
      matted coat stained, eyes
      happy and alive.

      from #39 - Spring 2013