The Sheep Child by James L. Dickey

I am here, in my father’s house.

I who am half of your world, came deeply

To my mother in the long grass

Of the west pasture, where she stood like moonlight

Listening for foxes. It was something like love

From another world that seized her

From behind, and she gave, not lifting her head

Out of dew, without ever looking, her best

Self to that great need. Turned loose, she dipped her face

Farther into the chill of the earth, and in a sound

Of sobbing      of something stumbling

Away, began, as she must do,

To carry me. I woke, dying,

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