My uncle,

his thumb gone,

bit off

by a heifer in ’59

when barbed wire

tangled ’round her jaw,

(he tried

to set her

free)

broke his hip

twice on broncs,

’64 and ’76.

 

Not one of those urban

designs

with a

plush,

tanned,

ten-gallon hat

and

fake drawl,

but sittin’

buck-kneed

on a cistern

with dry, cracked lips

and

tobacco blood

puddlin’

in the dirt

beneath him.

 

His mind drifted.

‘Said,

“Three calves drowned

in torrents this spring.

All my fault.”

 

We were buckin’ bales,

the sun a quirt

across our

backs,

when the women

finally found us.

 

Grandpa knew,

saw it

on their faces,

motes

in their

eyes.

 

“Well,

he’s

gone

and

done

it now.”

 

My uncle had

taken a

pump

Winchester

with him

to the west

pasture.

Set himself free.

 

Brad Ratzlaff