Beast
When
my father tells the story
the
punch line is always
about
the size of my hands—
How
small and perfect they were
in
just the right moment.
And
he sits there
on
the recliner
in
his gray sweater
talking
like a cowboy.
The
story goes like this:
My
mother was gone somewhere
and
I had come outside.
It
was late in the season for a birth.
And
the pack of men were all standing around
And
our cow had half of her calf
hanging
out of her.
No
one knew what to do,
but
cows are money
And
it had been too long
And
they both were going to die.
So
somehow I walked over there
Driven
by instinct or luck or something --
And
I got it out.
Like
waterfall the calf
ripped
into the world
Still
it a perfect sack
The
placenta,
Unwrapped
like a gift.
No
one believes the story at first,
but
it is true,
And
I am afraid of it.
See
when my father tells it,
He
always leaves out the details:
Like
the way needle grass, sugar bush,
Brittle
brush, and wild rye
were
taller than usual that year.
The
low hum of the cicadas
could
be heard for miles.
Or
how the men drank sixers
and
shoot bee bees at the trunks of trees
while
I carried that sack
far
out to the field.
I
dug a hole with my perfect hands
And
neatly tucked it away.
You
might be wondering
if
something beautiful happened after that.
But
life continued.
The
placenta in the field
a
meal for the coyotes,
the
pill bugs,
a
feast for my family
legend.
Such
beasts we hope
one
day unearth themselves-
Our
stories,
our
fictions,
our
bones
our
birth.
So
that
someone
with
perfect
hands
can
dig it up
somewhere,
far
out
in
the field.
- Brandi Kary 2016
Brandi
Kary is a mother, educator, and writer who lives in Pacific Grove,
California. She currently teaches English and Creative Writing at
Monterey Peninsula College and Cal State Monterey Bay. Both she and her
anthropologist husband enjoy dragging their kids all over the world to gain
inspiration. Her poetry has recently appeared in Homestead Review,
The Voices Project, and Flutter Poetry Journal.
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