Larson's Holstein Bull, By Jim Harrison

Death waits inside us for a door to open.
Death is patient as a dead cat.
Death is a doorknob made of flesh.
Death is that angelic farm girl
gored by the bull on her way home
from school, crossing the pasture
for a shortcut. In the seventh grade
she couldn’t read or write. She wasn’t a virgin.
She was “simpleminded,” we all said.
It was May, a time of lilacs and shooting stars.
She’s lived in my memory for sixty years.
Death steals everything except our stories.

Hear the poem – just the opening part of the show. Until the 1:30 minute mark.

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2 Responses to Larson's Holstein Bull, By Jim Harrison

  1. Not only his voice, but his face, his hand, pen on paper. Sometimes I can see it all, poets, writers, dreamers, as a vast barn dance in which we get to do whatever steps suit us, keeping time to the music we hear, showing up and hoeing down all under the one great roof. xo

    • rachvb says:

      I love seeing people content in their ways – voice, hands, body, work. It’s something I haven’t mastered at all, but am hoping comes with experience and time and…
      I love the idea that we are all under one roof, because in reality, we are. Writers, like women sometimes, seem jealous of others success and work. But I would hope we are all working toward the same thing – to move people, to inspire them, to make them feel less alone in themselves.

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