The horned things knew
the scent of blood usurping sweet hay

as the woman cracked and sang.
The hooved things stamped

the soil, bleated while she moaned,
their rhythm of foot an ease to her splitting.

There was the quiver of oxen haunch,
the slight ripple of donkey hide

when the child slid into this world  
of ovens and knives,

tethers and thorns,
their lowing lamenting

what every mother looses
to God.