Poetry by Maureen Wilkinson
The Inseminator's Tale
This poem has been published in Westwords and Farmer's Weeky, and is included in my collection THE BLINDMAN GOES FROM A TO B published by Peterloo Poets. A signed copy may be PURCHASED HERE...
THE INSEMINATOR'S TALE
Who is this stranger, wearing fancy dress?
A surgeon's smock, high boots, on
filmy glove He flicks the square lid from his silver flask.
White vapours are exhaled, and they drift
around the frozen capsules, stained dark blue.
The cow's brought in and tied. She sighs and shuffles
to register her boredom and annoyance.
He edges up behind her, eyes alert.
Across his mouth quivers a silver cane, like
a flamenco dancer's rose. There is no point
in talking to one with lips thus engaged.
I entertain the cow with murmurings.
His gloved arm slips up her anatomy. "She’s right on," he
affirms congenially.
His sterile cupid's arrow finds its mark.
I free the cow. I wonder if she misses
courtship, even sexual satisfaction. The lumbering bull,
with all his sniff and savour,
his mooning eyes and lusty consummations,
has been replaced in her annals of romance,
by one discarded gauntlet, somewhat stained.
And
does she feel a sense of being changed,
as Silver Patrick's semen (Charolais),
swiftly defrosts. This is her sixth conception.
While poor duped Silver Patrick, never knowing
where all his seed so lightly spilled is going,
continues in his joyless copulations,
with half a cow skin on a wooden frame.