Another Creature: Poems

The Goat

The Goat From day one the goat despised me. Apparent in her backward lunge, her horizontal scrutiny. The rooster, cat, and dog merely indifferent, all slurping from the same enormous bowl; the mother just north of aloof. You are a bit too glamorous for my son, she often said. Lipstick hater, mascara hater, brewer of foulsmelling teas. And the curse of the cabin, itself an organic, growing thing, drafts stuffed with dirty straw. No one dared mention why it was worth the goat’s feed and wrath when cheese was as natural and local down the street at the Red Owl store. No one asked what were the little black flecks in the honeycomb where bees’ legs stuck, why the homemade wheat pasta quivered, glutinous, under the wormy tomatoes. And nobody switched the station from NPR, not even when folkies screeched whaling songs, so powerful was the charm of a non-smoking man who could cook and grow herbs and build cabins and love his mother. Could make his own ice cream, 71 croon in Norwegian to ancient wives as he led them gently around on the VFW dancefloor, princely in coveralls. No wonder I was hollow-eyed starved when you found me, your promise of vodka and cheetos and rock and roll! How willingly I leapt into your leather seats, inhaled the bouquet of smoke and air conditioning. How delighted those nights you surprised me with Mrs. Paul’s and tater tots, baked at 350 upon our return from Best Western’s Happy Hour. Battered and golden, abundant with greases and salts! How grateful I was to be even your second choice, slopping that feast with ketchup and tartar, forgiving the tiny crystals of ice at the core of each scalding bite. 72 ...