Inside the sheep’s hot center, lambs tangle,
soft joints press a tender twin.

I am brought to the barn, soap my arm in a sink.
Orion stabs the sky with his arrow of ice.

I unwrap one sister from her awakening sister,
carefully, for the flesh is tender and this is an animal will.

Hand in the cave where blood shapes into an other,
I will bring them forth, bleating into January.

Good shepherd, I will shelter them from fangs,
chase stray dogs with a gun, turn them onto grass in spring.

They will come when I call, press against woven wire
even though I call them to the gleaming hook.

Photograph by W.T. Pfefferle.