They Made the Sound of Her Man

She’s kept his wellington boots,

under her bed, uncleaned, dusty,

since being removed from his body,

blood stains fade from the wounds

where the bull had gouged him.

She’s kept no lock of hair, or his pipes,

nothing but the wellingtons

and wedding photo on the mantle.

Horns plunged through his groin

stomach and chest. Hooves smashed his face

before the bull casually strolled off

to shag another cow.

His own bull he had raised from a calf,

his own bull who turned on him one hot August day

in an uncautious moment when he was dog-less in the field

The neighbour who found him

found a piece of his penis on the grass

but hid it in his pocket from the wife.

After the funeral,

the bull slaughtered,

the herd sold,

she slipped them under the bed

before undressing and sleeping overhead.

The wellies told her he was close,

she heard his clopping in them before his face appeared for meals,

he pulled them off only before climbing into bed

beside her every night when he made love to her

every night and again every morning.

They made the sound of her man,

They made the sound of her man.


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