February may have killed the neighbor. No one has called. We left two messages. I know the pump to his well stopped. And his stepson Joe was getting desperate.
My mare is crippled. The horse that moves without effort, is hobbled to a gimp, a pulled muscle, an abcess. Soak her hoof two times a day in hot water, epsom salts. She buries the same hoof in snow.
Mud, ankle deep. The gravel washes off the driveway where the ditches filled in.
First Born Goat
First goat, grown up nursing his mother,
belly laughs in wind. Skeleton weed lifts off,
needles me, old barrel woman, tongue tied.
No other kids? Little boy goat, denutted,
his mother and one old woman. Goat leaps,
four ankles painted white, a swatch mixed
tan, cloven hoof, bucks me up thigh high.
I buy the white freezer deep as a casket to
saw goat pieces, parts paper wrapped will
marinate huckleberry wine, June fire roasted.
Steel my finger tips itching for seven inch ear,
my own blubber heart weighted like an iron.
In this rat’s life, wind shifts now a sharper tune,
dirt flings pricked up weeds, a little goat empty of
laughter. Finally, I yell no, we will not slaughter.
Bring me a basket, whole armfuls, kale, cabbage.
Collect buckets, freeze my own damn well water.
Piss poor woman, little goat, start new, already
dreaming to build us an entire oasis walking
a bald track to the blue skied pond, bitter brush,
blue heron tucks in two flying. Little goat stops,
mirrors mountain with water witched this way that.
Boy’s sloped nose, pupils toppled straight as columns,
tight lip grin, a new moon crest: Goat makes me laugh.
PJ
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