Bob Bradshaw

Calving

"Help me lift her up."
"The poor girl's exhausted," Dad said.

"Dystocia is common.
There's no need to worry," he said,
his voice unable to hide his concern.

We soaped her perineum
in a mild cleanser. Then, his arm sleeved
in a petroleum jelly, Dad

reached in
pulling one leg, then the other, as if coaxing
the calf down a long mine chute.

"Just like emptying a long sock," he said, warmly
as the calf slid out onto the floor.

Suddenly Dad thrust a finger into her rectum
and she heaved, breathing.

While he looked up the dam's canal,
wary of tears, I stroked the calf, rubbing her back.

It was early dusk, and already a star
was shimmering like a drop of milk.

Blind

It was 1964 when I became blind.
The books' print became strips
of smudged ink. Everywhere there was
the same time of day: dusk.

My daughter with her boyfriend
disposed of my complaining
by anchoring me by a radio.

The late night static
could have been the lingering
hiss from a dead star.

While I waited for my daughter
I wrapped myself in a blanket,
listening for voices late
at night. They would suddenly come in
unexpectedly from great distances:
Houston, Phoenix, Chicago

wherever there were voices,
gravelly but still human,
before they would break up like meteors
in the earth's stratosphere.