Poems by Margo Taft Stever

Ballad of the Dolphin

Ancient Greeks said they should be treated
as humans; their sailors would not kill dolphins.

by Margo Taft Stever

From Canary Fall 2019

Margo lives on a bluff that rises above the Hudson River at a point more than three miles across where the river is close to its widest. This is the portion of the river that the Dutch called the Tappan Zee. Nearby cliffs contain lines from the geologic period when the glacier advanced southward.

How I have thought of you
caught in the fishermen’s nets—

they would set them to trap
you to catch the tuna

that swam under your schools.
How the fishermen hung

you still alive, upside down—
your cries brought others.

Fishermen grabbed you by
your tails, strung you, and turned

you, head down in water, tied
you to lifting hooks,

and dragged you to the docks. If any
of you were still alive when they slung

you on cement, they stabbed you.
How last survivors churned

the water red, leaping in panic,
waiting to die. In a “good” catch,

it took them three days to kill
all of you. How mothers whose calves

were entangled could not lift them
to the surface. They listened to their helpless

underwater clicks and sighs.
How often I thought of the whale skippers

who would radio the location of hundreds
of you, allowing tuna fishermen

to track down your entire pod. Think
of their nets, deep, foaming, wide,

so that hundreds could fit inside. How they
used underwater sound

to confuse and drive you down—
how many of you drowned.

Fishermen did not want to compete
with you, but killing you was not enough.

How they used the screams
of several to slaughter more.

How one of you hangs from the prow,
still alive, calling, calling.

Previously published in the author's chapbook, Ghost Moose (Kattywompus Press, 2019)

© Margo Taft Stever

End of Horses

by Margo Taft Stever

From Canary Fall 2019

I write to you from the end
of the time zone. You must realize 
that nothing survived after

the horses were slaughtered.
We sleep below the hollow
burned-out stars.

We look into dust bowls
searching for horses.
When you walk in the country,

you will be shocked to meet
substantial masses on the road.
We do not know whom to blame

or where the horses were driven,
who slaughtered them, or for what
purpose. Had the horses slept 

under the linden trees? The generals
and engineers pucker 
and snore on the veranda.

Previously published in the author's chapbook, Ghost Moose (Kattywompus Press, 2019)

© Margo Taft Stever

Litany of the Sow

"Industrywide, about 10 million piglets are crushed by their mothers each year, according to
pig-production experts, and studies have pointed to bigger litters as a major contributor."
                                                                  Michael Moss, New York Times

by Margo Taft Stever

From Canary Spring 2020

Farmers drug her to birth more piglets
in a cage so small they cannot move.
Her piglets cry out in pain;
                                    bones dig in her skin.

There is an old woman who lives in a shoe; she has
so many children, she doesn’t know what to do
It doesn’t matter,
                                    nothing she can do.

Fourteen piglets suckle at her teats;
She shifts her body to keep from losing
limbs. Hear her moans,
                                    bones tear in her skin.

                                    Nothing she can do.
Under her weight, her great broken heart,
sigh of last breaths, the shudders.
Bones of her own, she can barely move;
                                    bones slash into her skin.

They bind her in steel. She cries out.
Fourteen piglets suckle at her teats.
She cannot
                                    move to comfort them. 

This little piggy went to market, this little piggy stayed home.
This little piggy went wee wee wee—bones broken,
bones dig in
                                    her great broken heart.

Previously published in STATOREC, 2018, and in the author's chapbook, Ghost Moose (Kattywompus Press, 2019)

© Margo Taft Stever