Afterbirth hangs from her—
it might dangle there for days
like snakeskin
until it drops, but this time the bull sniffs,
tugs at it. He clamps his teeth to the pink,
yanks. He grinds it down, swallows.

The way he rips, the way she shudders:
It is easy to hate him.

                                              Be careful,
the next scent of birthing blood
might bring coyotes to yank, to rip,
again, but not like him—he stopped.

They leave nothing
to interpret.

 


 

Reese Conner is a poet living in Phoenix, Arizona. His work appears or is forthcoming in Moon City Review, Spillway, Fifth Wednesday, Cactus Heart, Punchnel’s, and elsewhere. Reese is the recipient of the Katherine C. Turner prize from the Academy of American Poets, the 2014 Mabelle A. Lyon Poetry Award, and a chili pepper on Rate My Professor.

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