It made me feel like a man
when I helped my grandfather
castrate the early lambs
picking the hard orange O-rings
from the plastic bag
and stretching them across the made-to-purpose tool,
heavy and steel-hard in the sun,
while he turned one between his legs
to play it like a cello.
Spreading the pink unwooled skin at their groins
he'd coax them up into the sack,
one-handed, like a man milking,
two soaped beans into a delicate purse
while gesturing with his other
for the tool, a pliers in reverse,
Which I'd pa** to him then stand and stare
as he let his clenched fist open
to crown them.
We did the tails too while we were there
so when I walked the field weeks later,
both could be counted;
the tails scattered like catkins among
the windfall of our morning's work -
a strange harvest of the seeds we'd sown.