Chad Rutter

            Soft Hands

It wasn’t because I hadn’t worked
hadn’t blistered on wooden handles
on baling wire and alfalfa
hadn’t buried them in abrasive earth
or run them across the
sandpaper stem of cocklebur
pin cushion prick of thistle
over coarse hair of cow hide gripping
a calf’s far legs yanking them hard
so it lands on it’s side
with a sickening percussive blow
holding them tight as it tries to kick free
and away from the bite of the tag in its ear
it wasn’t because I hadn’t believed
praying the Sinner’s Prayer
a half dozen times just to be safe
picking up my father’s Bible
impressed by how his thumb had worn
completely through the leather cover
unaware of the bare spot
his callused hands were wearing in me
and when I’m back for funerals
I shake hands with old farmers
who joke about how soft mine are
and I smile back at them
across the ever-widening gulf

Chad Rutter is an emerging poet originally from rural Nebraska now residing in Minneapolis, Minnesota. He received an MFA from the University of Minnesota in sculpture. His poetry has recently appeared or is forthcoming in Rust and Moth, Anti-Heroin Chic, Midwest Noir, Ballast Journal, Novus Literary Arts Journal, The Calendula Review, Dodo Eraser, and Right Hand Pointing.