She thrusts her muscled arm into the frantic mare’s
rectum while I struggle with the twitch tightened
on the upper lip. The wooden handle rasps my palm.
The mare bashes into the wall. Her new colt, safe
in an adjoining stall, nickers fearfully.
Her dark hair tossing like the mare’s mane, she
says “I can do this,” grabs the twisted gut and swivels,
a sound like a squeezed balloon. I’m jerked
off my feet and now it’s done. The mare
white-eyed, stands trembling while we high five,
two women after midnight. “If I wasn’t on call,”
she says. I nod. The men would have ordered “clinic,”
loaded her, foal and all, following protocol
for such emergencies, or so we like to think.
Three exhausted females in a torn-up stall,
Straw scattered everywhere like confetti.