Wakeman

when the neighbor’s cows shuffled into the field
dad would always shout "cows are out!" 
and we (forgive us, just two kids) would burst 
through the side door. i gathered emerald strands
of rain-fattened grass just outside of the cows'
reach, twisting them into thick braids.  their
noses would nuzzle, tongues unfurl. you taught 
me that summer how to tell if the fence was on: 
by taking a strand of long grass (an imperfect 
conduit) and touching it to the hot wire. if it
was on, the  bones  of  our  arms  would  thrum.
pain  gently  weaving  through  the  radius and
ulna in electric plaits.  we would smile,
then, in the fading light. grass to the fencetop.
mostly fearful of not having loved another fully.  
not yet knowing how to love ourselves.
(oh, forgive us! just two kids, then.)
learning  new  ways  to  ease  into  the  hurt.