Cattle Drive

Abigail Sipe

I make the drive on the weekends, 
Not feeling giddy, like I used to, when I passed these same fields and the Dollar Tree. 
Lowing with every mile that passes, and every hour that passes too. 
I don’t say “cows” when they pass my window. Their black eyes are vacant, too.  

What will I be by the time I get to you? 
I carry our years on my shoulders, watching the load get heavier. 
My yoke is not easy. I know what it means to be a beast of burden— 
To set your sights forward, and trudge through the mud, and push through the furrows. 

But when I pull up on the gravel outside of your house, 
You rush out to me, and envelop me in humanity. Words, emotions, remember? Remember? 
This yoke was built for two, and you push it off my shoulders, until it has the softest touch— 
Was it ever heavy? It brushes my cheek and my flanks. 

Remember when we started this together? We were just calves— kids then. 
Remember when I saw you for the first time? We were gangly, and awkward, and who knew? 
Remember dancing by the river? Remember the first time we— well, every first? 
You kiss me, and it’s tenth grade, sunflowers, Christmas lights, marry me? Yes.  

I can carry it. I won’t wear it alone for long.  
As I drive home, I watch the sun go down-- golden, pinkish, reddish, cherry. 
The stars turn around the world and isn’t it gorgeous how time is passing? 
I say “cows” when I see them in the field, and they turn to watch me go.