Calving

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.