Writing Hand

This morning my hand went numb while I was writing.

My right hand.

The same hand I used yesterday

to painstakingly strip the last few ounces of milk

from Cori’s injured teat end.

A week ago it looked like someone had stepped on it-

-it being her rear left teat.

-Someone being a nine hundred pound jersey cow.

Bruised black and purple,

with a thick maroon scab covering the orifice.

I peel at her scab as gently as I am able, to expose the opening,

to extract the milk filling her swollen udder.

This will save her from developing mastitis.

But Cori doesn’t know the word “mastitis,”

so when I tell her I’m doing it for her own good she still kicks

and swats her tail at me.

I don’t blame her.

And this morning the muscles in my forearm are sore from wrestling.

From forcing the milk out of her teat past skin that is doing its best to heal.

And as I’m sitting in bed, writing in my journal, suddenly my hand starts to feel like

pins and needles.

I shake it and nothing changes.

I take a break and the feeling comes back, but when I start writing again,

again pins and needles.

So this time I force it, I struggle through to continue writing,

to extract the thoughts from my foggy morning brain,

until I slowly lose all feeling.

I’m forced to stop, unable to overcome the limitations

of my own body.