- for Marvin O'Neal
I assume they call 'em kids
on account of their scream.
That sound doesn't let your mind wander.
My brother would cut them,
I didn't have the stomach.
I'd hold them--
brace my knee on their necks,
wrap up their bodies in my arms.
There'd be twenty or thirty of 'em
and we go right down the line,
next, next.
He'd push up on their guts
with his palm so he could grab hold
of the sac, they'd try to retract
them up, if you know what I mean.
Taking the knife like this,
so the blade follows his index finger,
he'd slice one,
careful not to cut his own hand,
and the nut opens up,
folds inside out,
and the goat would kick a little,
and make this sound.
My brother would pull the testicle
down so to cut through the last
membrane holding it to its body.
Of course, the nuts just go flying;
by the time we're done,
we got nuts here by the door,
by the walls, under our feet,
nuts everywhere. The problem is
keeping the dogs away from all those nuts
before we get a chance to clean 'em up.
The next day, we'd walk
through the herd, and all them
baby goats wouldn't move too fast, barely
pick up their legs. It was like stumbling
through something you’ve done, had to do,
would do again.
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