Bryner writing sample

Lamb

It did not happen suddenly.
We were living in the hills, hunters pounced,
mother was killed. A man carried me, bleating,
writhing, back to his village. I could not eat grass,
his wife nursed me. His children made me their pet,
kissed my black face, let me roam at will inside thick mud walls.
When they called, I ran to them, every pat and hug
a new link for my chain. There were others like me
who possessed amazing curved horns, refused to kneel like dogs.
Wooly tantrums are not tolerated, the pit is uncovered,
the stubborn driven past its edge. The spears are true, the effort
of lugging meat home, saved. Over and over, I was bred
to the smallest, docile rams. The children grew, swinging clubs,
pelting rocks, a sudden thud, I was blinded.
Now, if the great door stands open, I don’t try to leave,
protection is milk, and love, a brand,
not nearly as gentle as it sounds.

Poem by Jeanne Bryner