Fortress

The Calf

The Calf The sun subtracted the ordinary and left the russet hair of my friend to lead the way; we'd passed that family on the path, the blackbull and the cow whose baby shied over. There was a ring of time around the calf. I could feel it: a hard ring describing his fate, the eyes like chestnuts with a speck of shell peeled away. We had the same talk every day: sonata: the single theme which doubles, and we'd be hurt by what we couldn't say. We had just done this when the baby left the mother. We watched his mount-rushmore skull from the side as he focused on the most desolate place with the absolute attention of a lover, climbing through blond, immediate grass as a bad thought can climb, from uselessness; why didn't she notice? Shifting her weight in the swamp, moving the mud in her low area, 54 her stick legs holding the table of her torso flat because of the white patches like spilled milk on her back— why wouldn't she notice? My friend whimpered; the calf climbed over the hill and was lost while the cow held a sloppy sprig of watercress in her mouth, eyeing us: —I am the other, she said, I am creation stopped short, not death as the mother of beauty, death as the mother. 55 ...