GOAT STORY

MICHELE LEAVITT

 
 

In Maine, one afternoon,
            I came home to a goat

 
kissing the living room’s

            sliding glass door in defiance
 
of the whole town, which was on alert
            because his owner said

 
that he was lost and vulnerable,

            with a rope around his neck

 
that could get caught

            on anything. But no, this goat,

 
all one hundred fifty pounds of him —

            “Petey” was his name —

 
was lapping himself up,

            after arriving of his own accord
 
on a grim spring day,
            his tether loose,

 
his cloven hooves clicking
            against the bricks, his pupils
 
the dark slits of a beast

            too long in the woods,

 
his lips ready to nibble

            the rope around my neck.

 

 
 

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