by Rebecca Jamieson
The black and white Holsteins aren't tame. They live on the other side of the electric fence, rolling their white eyes if I get too close. They smell of shit grass and saliva summer sweet hay and the big night sky, prickling with stars. They are in their own world – fervent chewing the twice daily mechanical milker. I am in mine – no friends, braces on my teeth road that vanishes into corn fields. I stand next to the fence listen to its eager hum, touch a grass blade to it, just for the jolt along my hand, the sudden galloping of cows away from such desperate electricity.