First the horses go: the paint and the appaloosa whose neck wound never heals. Then the old cow, udder hardened by mastitis. I loved her best—as a calf she’d follow me anywhere, my thumb stuck in her mouth like a teat. She was the first who was truly mine: her black-tipped ears, milky breath, her eyes that needed me. And then she wasn’t—I glanced toward my future and she disappeared into the maw of the auction. That’s how I learned the way of my people, who fenced the earth and sold their loves to the highest bidder.

Bio: Amy Newday