"You're a she," the boy coos, and he's shirtless, and you're racked 
In the stall; all your hooves, splayed, buckle and he's petting you hard 
And it's forcing you back into the men and the mud and the white corn husks.

         They use the 
Baster in you.

This 
Not meant for you now:
    He had put a horse sterilizer in her drink, along with the Rohypnol, 
    so he wouldn't get her pregnant.  

And so it's dangerous to lie down anymore.

       She'd deliberate over it, before.  She liked 
       Joseph, of course, or John.  For a girl, 
       Undecided.

But from your swelling thoughts,
Thumps.

They were wrong. Something grows. 
                                Something 

From the hiss of a whisper gets strung up in the beams:
       The stitches had to be removed
       and resewn; 

       They were deforming her.

From the stall, you see the first clutch of corn sprouting 
Nude in the field.  They are like fingers stark 
White screaming up.

        Can you imagine what it's like down there? All that surgery?   
        'Hag's screaming mouth?

This corn claws its way out of soundless.    Dirt 
Opens everywhere.  "You're a she," the surrogate repeats, 

Reminds.  All this quiet is stretching your seams.  They

Were all wrong:
                             Along the edge— at
                             Field's edge— Along the grass —there— without serrated
                        End,

       Specula pry into sky.

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