outsider

By Kolbe Riney

When you ask
again,
“Where do you fit?”
I do not choose
the story
of the freemartin,
born, like me,
half feral
and hardy,
or the bull
who lushes in florals
instead of dust.
I do not repeat
the story
of the two head calf,
staring out this night
into a doubled sea
of stars,
or the beloved cow
sold at market
when her milk dried.
Such lines are wasted,
for you
never knew the feeling
of finding something
long since missing
in the eyes of a calf
caught in the squeeze
chute,
soothed
by its jaw.
Instead, I show you
the image
of fencing
lit white by the moon
lancing down between leaves,
and my wrist
braceleted
by the calf’s tongue
still smelling of milk,
my face
a mask of delight
in what I’ve become.