ALL MORNING

by Alan Shapiro

I’m watching my father, alive again, younger than I’ve ever seen him, at the entrance to the

slaughterhouse chute, among the just washed cattle. With a slender stick in one hand, he lightly

taps the hind legs of each cow, calf, or bull who stops there, refusing to go forward, spooked by

the clatter of hoof on metal, the occasional more fearful lowing farther down the line, the

smell. The tapping, though, is gentle, lighter than a nudge, more like a tender brushing than a

tap, and as he does this he’s whispering something in the animal’s ear, something maternal I

imagine, soothing, as if he cared for each and every creature he’s about to slaughter, and sure

enough with his sweet encouragement they all go forward, a little less unwarily, the bulls, the

cows, the calves, one after another they continue lumbering down the chute to the stun gun

station, and the hoist, and even after I’m awake enough to know I’m dreaming, his voice, more

melody than voice, more caress than melody, is still whispering in my ear to coax me on.

Alan Shapiro’s recent books are Dress Rehearsal for the Truth: essays on poetry, identityand belonging (2024); By and By, (2023), and Proceed to Check Out (2022). His new book ofpoems, Diver, will be published in 2026 by Unbound Editions.