She’s kept his wellington boots,
under her bed, uncleaned, dusty,
since being removed from his body,
blood stains fade from the wounds
where the bull had gouged him.
She’s kept no lock of hair, or his pipes,
nothing but the wellingtons
and wedding photo on the mantle.
Horns plunged through his groin
stomach and chest. Hooves smashed his face
before the bull casually strolled off
to shag another cow.
His own bull he had raised from a calf,
his own bull who turned on him one hot August day
in an uncautious moment when he was dog-less in the field
The neighbour who found him
found a piece of his penis on the grass
but hid it in his pocket from the wife.
After the funeral,
the bull slaughtered,
the herd sold,
she slipped them under the bed
before undressing and sleeping overhead.
The wellies told her he was close,
she heard his clopping in them before his face appeared for meals,
he pulled them off only before climbing into bed
beside her every night when he made love to her
every night and again every morning.
They made the sound of her man,
They made the sound of her man.