It’s my birthday and I’ve spent

the day counting the 27 bones

that make up a fist. My birth lies

on a peg among the hay hooks

and horse tack. Metal panels rot

in the roof, so the sky watches

with all its eyes. In one of the stalls,

the straw is still damp with a sheep’s

stillbirth. I soak my hands in the beaten-

to-hell washroom sink. My father’s

voice rests in the tin soap dish.

The suds almost look like a family.