Folded calf

Ruby Lawrence

My father did not struggle to fold in the legs of a calf. He completed this task smoothly, picking up the calf with a scooping motion, then bringing his arms together, folding the legs until they clustered like a bundle of sticks.

The calf had only moments ago been skitting around, prancing and dancing its first encounter with grass. Once folded and carried, it fell very still, its head bobbing with my father’s step as it was transported from here, to there. I watched calmness descend on the folded calf.

Being tied up is not sexy in and of itself, it is being tied up. You arranged me into mainly right-angles, and tied me up with your focused yet relaxed manner. My transportation was in the form of a push, whereby once tied up, you toppled me onto the thick, soft rug. I squeezed outwards for a moment, found scant yield, and let out a sigh. My mind moved downwards to live somewhere else, my belly perhaps—home of no thought. As you attended to further knots and encasings, my eyelashes drifted.

Much shorter than the biblical eyelashes of a calf: nonetheless, bobbing. Nonetheless, lulled by the spring of grass underfoot, a half-inch of give, maybe more when the ground is wet.

First published in Issue #28

Ruby Lawrence is a Glasgow-based writer, poet and performer, originally from North Yorkshire.