“It’s not kick you in the face spicy,”
it’s just not broke like the farmer stated those decades ago,
its years of livestock labor,
it’s not malicious anymore,
its heels are cooled until the perfect moment,
its moment is never wasted,
its weight transfers side to side as
it’s spooked,
its withered limb broken,
its lopsided gait slowed,
its body tenses, and rapidly limps as
its massive weight transfers to the likes of mine, crushing me, yet,
it’s the inadvertent blanket over my soul,
its heaving breath ceases as the paresthesia engulfs my legs,
it’s motionless, on top of me,
She’s dead.