Ram Time

Wenzel knelt to his tied ram,

stretched its neck,

made the quick cut,

grasped ear- and shoulder-wool,

directed the dying animal's bloodfall

into a pail,

the most blood I'd ever seen,

as it poured, then slowed,

then dripped.

Then Wenzel lifted the limp ram

until its flow began again.

This time,

after even its last

heartdrops swelled

out of the cut,

he carried the ram away

over his shoulders,

its head lolling backwards,

its eyes glazed, all

four hooves in his hands... .

I am the boy who stands in that grass,

witness, and will soon

probably carry the pail of blood

to Wenzel in his barn,

but want to wait, here,

thirty, or a hundred years,

or two, more or less, later. From this far,

the pail could be filled with milk

brimming white as washed eggs,

white as-but no, there's no

mistaking it. Some

- will stick, in fact,

to the boy's hands

when he lifts the pail

to carry the blood to Wenzel.

But now, here, for just this long, only

half knowing why,

he waits in the fold.

I can almost taste the beautiful

life's blood of the dead ram,

see how it will crest

from side to side,

how he will carry it,

how the sun itself will shine on it,

how Wenzel will thank him

and tousle his hair. . . . Meanwhile,

it's not impossible to stop time,

or let it drain away,

as I will. Even when I'm dead,

Tl have held the boy here

in ram time

for as long as I've wanted. Believe me,

I'm almost ready to let go.

I look up ahead

past fold and meadow

to the barn where

Wenzel is waiting.

My life goes on.

The boy lifts the pail.