I own thousands of books and comic books. I own fewer books than comics — I have grown disenchanted with the novel, as a form of storytelling, because it sucks me away from the world that I want to be part of, to find meaning in. So my shelves are filled with nonfiction books that I can reference, instead of read cover to cover. They are filled with poetry books and prose poems, writings by mystics and cranks. And they are filled with comics.

Comics read quickly but reward reflection — I can zoom through 20 pages while waiting for a teenager who takes forever to kiss their girlfriend goodbye, or I can slowly reflect on a page or two that tugs at my heart and makes me think.

The Laura Gilpin poem, “Two Headed Calf,” has become the source for a lot of internet comics.

For example, the two-page comic below by Little Tunny (their name on Twitter and on Patreon).

I don’t much like this interpretation, mostly because it implies that the calf is still alive when the farm hands find him, and that they will kill him as they take him to the museum. Honestly, this way of reading the poem never struck me; I always presumed that a two-headed calf was unviable and would die in the night. So this version of the poem, illustrated as a comic, is just too horrible, for me.

The version of the poem below, illustrated by Alyssa Ware, tries to set too much in each panel of the comic.

I like the silhouette at the end. I like the idea that I am standing behind this babe, watching its first and only night, in all its beauty. But it’s too fast, this version — I race over the text and the images and nothing touches me.

The version of Gilpin’s poem below, illustrated by Yasmine Wüster, gives the blue of the night sky to the whole image. It’s strangely cold, like I imagine the night to be.

I love the ways the sky explodes for this calf, twice as many stars as usual and all of them singing, flaring, flashing for this beautiful boy on its one night on earth.

I like to write these Saturday Essays for Perfect Duluth Day from a spirit of detachment. But this poem makes me feel, and that last frame makes me cry. And the next versions of this poem, they break my heart.

Adam Ellis illustrates the poem twice. I tell my students, the art of writing is the art of revision. You can feel the artist’s connection with the poem deepening in each revision.

In the first version, the calf is almost cold, flat in its affect. In the panel in which his mom licks the spot where his other ear would be, everyone is looking away — away from each other and away from the viewer. I love this version, but not as much as the next, because it doesn’t make me feel.

The second version is possibly perfection. The babe is asleep in the first panel (we are so far away from the terror in the first version we read). And the irony is palpable — the language calls it a freak of nature, but it sleeps, gently, sweetly.

The babe looks up toward its mom; it’s real. It feels. It feels the warmth of her tongue. It feels the love the mother is sharing.

I break into tears every time. If earlier versions give the calf a sky on fire, this is gentler — still twice as many stars. That sky will never appear again, once that baby is lost.

Points should always be given for creativity. The one below, by Amino user Beejfq, interprets the poem as if it were about a dragon-calf, and well, I’m a nerd, so let’s end with this one.

So many ways to tell this same story, each of them revealing of something about the storyteller, but even more so, about the ways that we can feel with and for each other, through stories.

I hope you can feel it, too. We are entering a very divisive election, and we need to understand that we can feel for and with each other through our stories.