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Gelding
by Lee Bradbury
Scalpel, four forceps, contusion pliers, two syringes,
a needle like a burnt snake fang, and plastic thread,
all in a pink tub of alcohol.
The pretty redhead vet calls the pliers
“nut crunchers.” The
testicles are not damaged,
not bloody when cut out of the scrotum,
but white, spidered radial blue with veins.
Big as peaches.
They weigh eight ounces each.
That’s one pound without the furry scrotum
you can wrap around your hand.
The damage is done to the spermatic cords,
each thick as a finger, an artery and vein
that will not clot if cut, unless pulverized first,
the white membrane around the testicle pure
nerves, what makes men curl on the ground,
the
cords wrapped in it, too, the paths this milky, metallic,
menthol agony takes from the testicles
into the gut, where, at wretched last, all the nerves meet
in a plexus, putrefy the agony into misery,
and from diaphragm to mid-thigh the body rocks exquisite.
They’re more durable than gristle,
and the sweet, strawberry redhead has to clench the pliers
with both hands to crush the cord through.
It sounds like crushing an entire head of frozen celery
wrapped in rubber
bands,
and the testicle bounces on the cement.
Then they have to crunch the other one off.
Ten minutes, altogether.
The horse curls up each hindleg and lightly stamps his hoof.
Muscle reflex. He
can’t feel them.
And he doesn’t know any better afterward.
When I was a kid I wanted to be a horse.
