The blizzard came early; the sagging sky birthed her first wet fluffy babies for the season. The
whole farm is wearing a baby blanket made of baby snowflakes. I’m writing to remind you that
once the sky drops her last litter (the weathervane predicts that will be in three months time)
you’ll need to come home.
All the sheep are late, earlier than expected, thanks to the blizzard. All the sheep! Every last ewe
on the farm is full of another sheep. Not a single one barren. Isn’t this great news? I’ll make sure
to give our King Ram a special treat to congratulate him.
Come home comely,
The ewes have been growing rapidly. They look so cute, those moaning puffs.
You should really come home and check them out. Their swollen labia look just like ours, but
soon they will swell up so big like bubble gum bubbles filling all the way up with breath before
they bust and shrink back down to size (the lips, but also the whole ewe). Don’t miss our
expanding sheep before they contract.
The snow has not melted, you still have time to get here before the agar-agar fields thaw and the
Where are you? According to the weathervane, last night’s blizzard marked the
last snow babies of the season. That means the ewes will lamb soon, yet you are not here and
show no signs of homecoming. I suspect the maternity barn is becoming too much for me to
Come home. I’m not worried; I’m just disappointed.
No longer are our livestock cute balls of future-yarn with pink taffy lips pouting under their
tails, now they are bleating nuisances with some kind of contagious flesh disease. Remember the
Ewe called Baby Babs? She was patient zero. She sprouted purple scabs on her lips yesterday, in
the morning. The other ewes started nibbling affectionately at her sores in order to relieve her of
the itch she could not scratch, what with her mobility compromised by a body so full of body.
Within minutes of ingesting Babs’ scabs, all the other ewe’s labia developed purple blemishes
Upon further inspection, I noticed the sheep labia lesions are like constellations in the sky. Baby
Babs is decorated with Orion’s Belt; Baby Betty’s got Taurus. They’re looking infected. Should I
peel the scabs back and see what seeps from the wet wounds? I suppose I should dab disinfectant
on them. I suppose I’ll do that now.
Won’t you nibble my scabs when I’m pregnant?
There will be no more snows, but it’s still so cold. Last night, I went into the incubation shed to
get my own heart all toasty. I knocked a basket of fresh hen eggs up off their shelf and into the
sink, so I battered myself in a bath of unfertilized bird goo and exfoliated with cracked shells.
The sheeps’ labial rashes have not cleared up, but are not spreading to other body parts. Also, the
Ewe called Baby Baily gave birth to a two-headed lamb. I’m calling them Baby Chang and Baby
Eng. Only one head is ever awake at a time. They are so cute now that they aren’t covered in
Baby Baily’s insides anymore.
Oh, I have to go. The Ewe called Bobbie Baby is going into labor. She is so wooly, yes sir yes
sir, we will get three bags full of enough yarn to spin all the post-natal lambpons I’ll ever need to
plug up the shedding uterine leaks of the whole flock.
Why aren’t you answering me? Should I put a cork in it?
Under the full moon, only one new lamb was born. Baby Bonnie birthed Baby Clarice, whose
heart is protected only by a thin membrane and pulses outside her chest cavity to the beat of The
Entry of the Gladiators. I’m scared to leave the mothers and their babies alone for even a
moment. I could really use another pair of eyes.
All the lambs have come out. Baby Bernadette’s a mother to twelve lambs so little, you’d
mistake them for bunny babies. Brenda Baby’s babies are grey and covered in scales like moth
wings. Sadly, Baby Bambi had a baby ram lamb with horns that will one day curl in reverse, but
he ran away once his eyes opened up. Baby Bambi does not seem too down about her runaway
ram. She is still producing milk that tastes just fine.
I didn’t write all week on account of all the new lamb babies to care for. I’m a lamby-nanny until
they bulk into ewes and rams and therefore have been too wooly to willingly write. Where are
Practically perfectly yours,
The ewes are bleating because the lambs are bleeding! All the little ones are sanguine spotted.
Come home before anyone drop dead.
PS Never you mind. It’s not blood dying the twin lambs’ tiny wooly body as they bleed out and
die. A can of red paint tipped over and dribbled pigment from a crack in the roof right on to the
PPS I checked paint cans and they were filled with blood. Not sure whose. Ha ha. Ba ba. Boffo.
All the sheep and all the lambs are dead. Wolves attacked while I shaved my legs in the bath.
Now you don’t have to come home, period.
Joanna Rafael Goldberg lives and writes in New York City.