Five rubber-gloved fingers end the limb of something without hooves. They courteously dock the Bull's member in a rubber sleeve. The Bull -- sire to millions of calves, the Creator, virility incarnate -- snorts rowdily as he ejaculates into a receptacle, unaware the counterfeit is neither bovine nor vaginal. The sentiment of his passion is frozen mid-flagellation, the sperms seized in lipoproteins like gnats in amber.
Five rubber-gloved fingers end the limb of something without hooves. They insert the insemination straw. It sings inside her like a sonnet. Sloughing their torpor, the sperms thaw and resume wriggling. By faith, they have been delivered to the receptacle of original promise. She somehow knows he is out there; She knows how he smells, how his haunches hang, how he moos.
Her stall walls holds her at night. Four cold metal arms hug her four tired legs and four empty stomachs. Her unbutchered flanks hug her uterus. Inside four more tiny legs and four more tiny stomachs, the love Calf of an anonymous Bull she never met.
Five rubber-gloved fingers end the limb of something without hooves. Nozzles siphon milk from her gorged udder as the machine's engine chugs hungrily. She remains docile as she's drained, nourishing innumerable and anonymous Calves. All who drink from Mother's teat are her children. She is poured in babies' bottles, on children's cereals, in senators' lattes, in her Calf's growth formula.
She knows the touch of five rubber-gloved fingers. She knows the embrace of her stall walls. She knows the prick of the insemination straw. The Mother of so much does not know how flesh feels warm.
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