The Lambs Wool Strap Speaks from the Gurney, 1915

I cannot guarantee no skin ripped from this woman’s wrist no

blood it must be blood which stains me I try to be soft soft as I can

remember. Being lambs wool having once been a lamb I remember

twilight laid out across the valley and all of us on the hill in its phosphor-

escence lit up each kink of wool a filament of electricity flickering. And

I remember it was quiet just the buzzing in our coats the hum of static

before darkness just the grass crackling from the weight of our knees

kneeling into sleep. But this, this wailing my god how she wails this is

neither twilight nor sleep. The nurses with their neat white hats sail-

boats circling the whale of her belly she doesn’t see them though she tries

to spit at them I take the feeble moist smack. I remember birth on the hill

the slick thing slipping out kicking out of its dark sac the mother standing

the lamb already standing no one came and took it away it buried its muzzle

at her belly. But here it was days wasn’t it a day before I hung loose cooling

in the air free of wrenching wrist before she rose from the pillow looked

around before the thing was brought into the room its hands flailing they

laid it in her lap she said Is it mine? she touched its face I remember it happened.