Poetry by Olivia Ocamb
“To My Son on His Birth Day”
By Olivia Ocamb
I remember the day you were made.
There was a laying of hands. Ragged
like flannels, scarred from cigarettes.
One said, Comehere, Bessy; I tried to
say
that’s not my name. My mother called me
Don’t Go. The other girls say my name
and tell me theirs: Wait, Please Stop, No.
But the men call us Bessy, Myrtle, Sue, Dairy.
One said easy honey as he plunged
a slick arm inside me. I kicked my heels
like dancing. I kicked metal
while arms like matchsticks braced my shoulders.
He asked for a syringe—
what’s that?
Wait told me later
it was your father. I never knew him.
You were born on a soggy day—
grass slicked back like greasy hair,
fields of mud to graze,
sky leaking mucous rain.
I lay on the earth, splayed
you an orange flicker—then flame
between my legs. The men paced,
spit tar black as clots. The girls
whispered along the fence.
You tasted of salt and blood.
Your creator hovered like a buzzard.
Heifer or bull? another called.
He yanked you over, crude
excuse for a doctor. Bull
I looked to the girls—
what’s that?
No shook her head. Wait sighed.
He snatched your legs, dragged
your birth-slick body. Your eyes
two frantic blackbirds
flew to mine.
He threw you
in a screeching cart,
I hobbled after—all leaky teats
and knocked knees
He walked away. I screamed
your name—
Stay
I never knew you
- Olivia studied creative writing at The University of North Carolina at Chapel
Hill (UNC), where her flash fiction received an honorable mention in UNC’s
Mini-Max Short-Short Fiction competition. She was the poetry editor at UNC’s
oldest student-run literary magazine, Cellar
Door. She works as a proposal coordinator at a management consulting firm.
In her free time, Olivia fosters kittens and volunteers at farm animal
sanctuaries. She writes about animal welfare research and veganism for
Faunalytics. She resides in Nashville, Tennessee with her husband and cats.