Cow Tipping Near Indian Creek

Drunk on beer and cheap whiskey 
we stumble from our pickups 
into the cold black air, 
follow the yellow glow of headlights 
through blue clouds of fog, 
over chain-linked fences, 
thickets of barbed wire, 

past junked tractors, 
rusted chicken coops, 
toward a weedy bank 
where moccasins glide 
across a black mirror of water 
and empty beer cans drift 

against the ripple of stars. 
Once there, we stand together 
in the blue light, content 
for a moment to watch them, 
balanced gloriously in sleep, 
moonlight tracing the black 
continents on their backs, 

their breath rising like spirits. 
The sweet smell of manure 
ripens in the air around us 
as we step into the soft mud 
to shove them, 
asleep and unknowing, 
into the freezing darkness.

Chris Tusa's Questions:

Do the line breaks in the poem seem awkward?

The Spirit of Bridget Bishop

Bridget Bishop was the first person convicted of witchcraft 
in Salem. Suspicion initially arose after someone claimed to 
have seen her spirit in the rafters of the Putnam barn. 
She was executed by hanging on June 10, 1692. 
	--Life and Times of Bridget Bishop

I was born in the dark 
corner of a barn, conceived 
in a drop of sheep's milk, 
squeezed into this bitter world 
by a farmer's callused hand.

Most mornings I rise like steam 
from the muscled backs of horses. 
In the afternoon I'm dust 
settling on floorboards, 
a twitch in a cow's neck.

All day I drift in the dusty light 
of the hayloft, high above 
the constant cluck of chickens, 
forever in a blue halo of flies.

It's only a matter of time 
before my voice scurries 
along the rafters of the barn, 
before gossip flutters 
in the branches of trees 
and the word witch ripens 
in townspeople's mouths.

Chris Tusa's Questions:

Does the voice seem believable?

My Grandfather's Hands

Bruised and bloodshot 
these heavy callused hands 
once pulled weeds

from the tangled earth, 
yanked vines and rope, 
shoveled black dirt.

In the sun they held scythes 
glowing, gripped the necks 
of whiskey bottles.

At work, they jerked 
wrenches, rusty crowbars, 
read lugnuts like braille.

In the dark sweat of the barn 
they fell hard on the backs 
of horses, pulled calves 

from the clenched hips of cows, 
snapped the necks of chickens. 
At night they cupped in prayer.

Balled into fists they clutched 
axes, dug graves, wrestled 
with wheelbarrows, split lips.

Now, soft as the wings of angels, 
they sleep, folded forever 
across his sunken chest.

Chris Tusa's Questions:

Is the poem overly sentimental?