Out the scullery window
comes the gloved wave
that means to say
a calf is coming.
Lying there, half
dead-looking,
a bundle of
spittle-slick fur
sticking every shape,
a pinkish, piss-
yellow puddle
swaddles her,
her eyes like
lychees, tongue out,
swooned to stillness
by her mother’s
proudest moans.