Finding Handsome 

We the shepherds knew something 
was wrong before we saw them 

intertwined. The rest of the flock 
huddled on the far side of the pen 

and not a single sound pierced 
our panic except those of the ewe’s 

frightened bleats – not a cicada nor a 
cricket, neither a wren nor an egret. 

The yearling ram was muddied, 
bulging eyes glazed, tongue a-loll 

and Handsome is such a pretty word. 
Handsome was found inside the sheep pen 

embraced by gentle curve of 
keratin and bone, his mother’s horn 

around his neck. Where is the saw
to cut the horn? Blow down his nose, pump 

the chest to beat the heart. Blow, pump,
hunt and search and fight 

but we the shepherds could not stoop
quickly enough to save him, and 

the ewe cannot make it right again, her
unintended doing of death. 

Now, he’s buried in the forest at Middleton Place
next to the many colicked geldings.