sheep sonnet

sheep sonnet

By Grace Sleeman

on the island, the sheep are being shorn for spring. the young 

ram, born before winter, doesn’t know the drill yet — his eyes

flare at the sound of the clippers, halter tied to the shearing 

post. his horns have started to grow long, curling in toward

the center of his eye — in time it will blind him, but he has

no way of knowing this. he hears the buzz of the bone saw

and jerks ragged against his tether. he only knows the naked

shame of growing his winter coat long and warm but to be shaved 

clean, blind jolting panic of the farmer’s knees around his

shoulders, pinning him fast — the vibration of the saw through

his skull. he only knows the sick terror of his horn in the young grass,

of standing naked and bleeding in an April field. His crown taken.

painless blood, maybe, but there is no blood without panic, or shame.

it would have hurt someday. but how would he know?