For Uncle Ken
Nights, he milks
under a cobwebbed bulb
fixed low in ancient rafters.
He has sat there forever,
red-rimmed black rubber boots
settled on urine-soaked floor.
His head rests on tawny flanks of mother,
then daughter. As his father taught,
his hands squeeze with practiced rhythm.
The only sounds are flies buzzing from flypaper overhead,
the cows’ grunts, hooves shifting on heavy planks,
and the steady beat of milk into the pail.
In shadows wait the silent cats
and kittens that live and die unnamed
behind boxes and bales.
Out in the dark, beyond his reach,
float his drowned twin,
the things he saw in war.
Nothing changes but the names of the cows
and the look of his bowed head
and his hands as they do their work.
