When the barn lit up for the very first time
the cows
in their stanchions
gave no milk
The galvanized buckets
deep black holes
anthracitic as the ravens on the fence
five in a row
a line of them reaching the farm
like the new electricity
They appeared that evening
hearing light
motionless
voiceless
as though whittled
of coal
Beyond
in the
eerie reach of the new light
the cows
trembled
the channels for their filth
all full
slow moving
a river of yesterday
Above, the swinging of
glowing filaments

Yesterday’s teats squinched by dawn-pink fingers
polished
into buckets
Galvanized
He always loved that word
Progress
Indestructability
Cheek to the warm
their steam in the bucket
their milk hides

His boy used to join him in the barn
at the hour of milk
when sweetness
instinctive in both
called lip to dipper
And they tasted brightness

Beneath the new light
he counted the cows
mouthed their names
Jenny Bertha Plum
Clover shifted her square and jutting hind
with its pendulous bag
hiding in her tender place
the righteous milk

—Julie Esther Fisher

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