It's Not Right

Your mamma's calls are tinged with longing, her panic sharp in the darkness.
 
The light lifts into grey. Mamma's cries carry a convoy of anguish, of ache.
 
It’s not right.
 
Mamma is distant from the strength of the herd. Homeless.
 
I walk closer, the light betrays mamma's storm. You are the eye.
 
It’s not right.
 
You neglect mamma's nuzzles, unmoved by her tenderness.
 
Mamma swings her horns at my intrusion, defending you from harm already afflicted.
 
It’s not right.
 
Mamma calls to the herd in the distance. The herd is silent. Your eyes are silent. 
 
Broken, my heart reaches quietly to mamma through a tunnel of soft words. Her wails heave higher.
 
It’s not right.
 
Mamma cleans you, comforting you, waiting for you to answer her, to rise. Mamma moves to the herd.
 
Mamma bends her head to a sister, who licks her ears, returning the comfort she has given you. A companion in her loss, in her anguish.
 
It’s not right.
 
Mamma is incomplete with the herd, baby. Mamma is incomplete with you.
 
It’s time baby. I lift you. Your fatal cold suffocates through me. I carry you away.
 
It’s not right.
 
I build. A home for you baby. Near the youngest pear. My dream: that your alliance will grow a fresh shoot, your essence endless in this family tree.
 
A sunken home, the shape of you. I arrange you with family:
 
Cedar and quartz to protect, pecans in place of mamma's milk, grass. A feather from guinea, a playmate for chase and chatter. 
 
I have only tangled whisper and voided word to bequeath, baby. Please accept the only gift I have to give, to wrap you in the arms of your new mamma. Earth