They say the dairy calf will mistake
a human finger in her mouth for mother.
Bottle or udder, am I of this world?
I give the calf my pointer turned print up
so I feel the ridges on the roof
of her mouth. The animal’s gentle suction
frightens at first, like the loose steer
who charged but didn’t run far. He wanted
to eat. Wanted nourishment. Mistook
the roosters’ freedom for his own. I take
your hand in mine, thinking it might
be rough—like my jagged impression
of other men—not smooth, or hold me wrong.
Mistake isn’t the word. Upend. Belong.

Quinn Lewis

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