Stevie Mann, Close-up of farmer’s hand on hoe
Digital photograph
Courtesy of International Livestock Research Institute
Now you rely on a dialysis machine,
whose bare hands could lift the engine
of a tractor when you were young.
Or waltz a gigantic tree-trunk
onto the sawmill bench. Or throw
the leather belt, attached to a disc-saw
pulley at one end, out to its full
thirty-foot length. I hear your snuffle
and your snarl, your curses
as you paced, pumping yourself up
for each new feat of strength.
Fox-shooter, snare-setter – once,
you draped a brace of rabbits across
your shoulder, their heads
bouncing as you strode into the dark.
Once, you gripped by its throat
a sodden canvas bag, the eels within
making the material muscle
and bulge, one eel pushing through
where the twine frayed, only to have
its skull crushed in your hand.
What image can I find to fit you with,
for whom life was blood or
the prospect of blood, a fight no good
unless it drew blood? What stay
can I put against your blotched gaze,
your tattered arm and wrist
not ready yet to go along with nature’s
intention? The only image
and the memory coming is of ferrets
smuggled from your pockets, fed down
our shirts or slipped, as if
they were scarves, around our necks,
where they spun and spun,
pausing to nuzzle the quickened pulse.