April is Poetry Month

I adore this strange poem. It disturbs, yet... uplifts too?  

One of my earliest memories is standing (rapt and terrified) next to a cow in bloat. Maybe four or five years old, I longed to run but I couldn't move. A medical emergency, bloat occurs when a cow overeats, the ingested feed ferments and excessive gas expands internally; it must be released or the cow will die quickly. But the men in that field that day (including my father) just paced and grimaced and stared. They seemed to be trying to decide something. I didn't know it at the time, but a veterinarian was on his way. What I recall most clearly was the cow's suffering—its frantic and unrelenting bawling—and although childhood me couldn't fully grasp the procedure and its intensity, finally, finally, finally someone arrived and I witnessed a puncturing and heard the gas release like a balloon deflating. The bawling ceased. The cow stood up.

I apologize for these images which are especially potent for animal-lovers, also for the poem which may be upsetting. But I share these words and this story, because no doubt this experience helped me learn compassion and empathy, key factors in shaping my neurobiology, my emotional intelligence...but something more too, something dark I continue to confront.... 

This formative event thrust me into a degree of discomfort I'd never experienced before and one I never wanted to experience again. Already an anxious and stressed child, this incident reinforced avoidance.  Childhood me longed to ESCAPE and quite frankly, it became my default. I'm not proud of it, but I only have enough capacity to remain in the north field with those closest to me. I soooo admire people, those nurses, and doctors, and counsellors, the firefighters, the death doulas...but I am not a rescuer.  

This is why I appreciate this poem—despite featuring a seemingly imminent death—Gilpin focuses on an alternative perspective, a less sober and severe inevitability—albeit temporary. The poem features no rescuer, just a cow and her calf in a cloudless field, alive. In this poem, I am not the farm boys seeking notoriety, nor the cow or her calf, but instead I relate to the poet.    

Dear friends, I can't save you, and I'm sorry for that, but I will always want you to notice the stars.