Not Exactly Shakespeare


Draw an imaginary line between an ear
and the opposite eye, then another line
between the other ear and the other eye,
making an X on her forehead. She’ll be
dead before she hits she dirt. It will drop her,
first shot. Brain shot. So says the vet.
It doesn’t always work that way. Sometimes
they don’t even flinch with that first shot,
just look at you like—why did you do that?—
as a trickle of blood runs down her forehead.
Sometimes it’s awful. Sometimes you unload
six shots in her and she dies a slow death.
I’ve watched Jackman, the meat processor,
do it. It’s an art, and the vet’s right, dead
before she hits the ground. Or he, sometimes
it's a bull or steer. Sometimes a calf. It is
an art, and even after all this time it’s hit
or miss with me, and I don’t much care for it.
You come across an ole girl that you’ve raised
from a calf. She’s humped-up and cold, thin,
when the last time you saw her, a few days ago,
she was fine. Hardware, I’m guessing, ate
a small bit of rusty metal, tore up her gut,
she’s bleeding to death. What are you going
to do but put a bullet in her head? And quick.
And, usually, more often than not, one shot
does it—BAM! But when it doesn’t work, and
when she looks at you with that questioning
look, or gives a little shake of her head, as if
a horsefly just landed, then, then you think—
I’m going to have to live with this for a while.







Poetry by jim The PoetBay support member heart!
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Written on 2015-01-09 at 15:43

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Editorial Team The PoetBay support member heart!
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2015-01-11



I have true admiration for the people who have to do these kinds of things so that we can buy a neatly wrapped steak without giving it a thought as to how it got there. You can almost make a vegetarian out of me! Wonderful, vivid descriptions and feelings.
2015-01-10



Having grown up on a farm (well, sort of), and having a brother who was an avid hunter, this really strikes home. I have no doubt that if I were hungry and couldn't get to a supermarket where the killing has already been done and everything is chopped up, packaged, and in no way looks like it was ever alive, I could kill an animal. But I never really had the stomach for it. Everything, even the squirrels and wild turkeys looked too pretty to kill. Once, when my brother bought me a b.b. gun (I guess he thought it was time to initiat me into manhood :) I shot a bird and felt miserable the rest of the day.

But I'm well aware that its often a mercy or a necessity, and your poem so gently and skillfully describes how for most of us, it's something not to be taken lightly.

Excellent.
2015-01-10


Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
This is good, one of the best you've done. It shows why you had to come back.

As for death, it bothered me a lot when I was a little kid, but I guess that I saw enough of it to start considering it ordinary. It happens. It's not that big a deal when it does.
2015-01-09


Rob Graber
I still live with having shot a groundhog, trapped in a window well, between the eyes, fifty years ago. Not nightmares or anything; just the memory. It went still immediately, a thin trickle of blood from its mouth.

Great, great write about how a humane person feels killing creatures that look back at you.
2015-01-09


countryfog
How difficult it must be, as a rancher whose care and keeping of his cows is his life and livelihood, to accept and act with both the attachment and the detachment that care requires, to do all one can to keep them well and safe and when the time comes to do too what is humane and necessary, to be responsible for both life and death. I doubt most of us could do it.
2015-01-09


night soul woman The PoetBay support member heart!
Ah what is to be the right companion to the moribund? ... and why is killing not like it feels inside the head:? Well... :) it depends on but I am sure you know no need to bore you:) Thank you for the reading experience:)
2015-01-09