There’s no room for doubt. This is the way he bleeds.
You see, the farmer hadn’t asked, but she answered.
She said, “Yes” and the man’s chest bloomed.
Of course this doesn’t have to change things.
Moving the walker ahead of his slow step by slow step as if he were once again
coaxing a reluctant lover.
Clouds piling up in the west.
A long line of children.
A kind friend with no promises to keep.
A tickle of gray at the edges.
Walking, walking, walking, all day long.
The farmer’s torso was carefully studied in Saginaw, Michigan before being put on
display, complete with appendages.
And guarded, guarded like the dickens.
Because fingers and thumbs are more easily broken than hooves. Because of the
rarity of the specimen.
Perhaps one of the farmer’s sons once thought playing in the mud was more
rewarding than growing plants. Perhaps he had received no approval, no approval ever.
Perhaps something could be seen in this example, but what?
Thick and threatening like an angry man in a canvas sack.
“There, there, I’m sure that torso belongs to someone.” That’s what they said to him
on the streets after he escaped.
He had been dreaming of little turtles, thousands of them, pouring from the faucets.
She hadn’t noticed. She said, “Yes.”
Clouds piling up in the east.
A long line of children.
Of course this didn’t have to change things.

Rich Ives is the author of Tunneling to the Moon: A Psychological Gardener’s Book of Days currently being published in serial @ Silenced Press everyday in 2014 and forthcoming in paperback. Begin from the beginning, catch up, read daily. Just refer to the Burrow Guide.