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The Goat I sat outside Dad’s vacant house and watched lungfuls of schwag blur the straggly leafy sprawl of a forest mending from a clear cut a few years back-- a next chapter scrawled in pulpy cursive-- when a goat moseyed up to sneakers I’d left on the grass. “What the hell is a goat doing here?” I asked,
but no one was around to answer. I wondered: did the question really materialize, bloom from synapse to lips like ape unfurling from crouch in nude time-lapse into modern Man? Or did it merely echo inside my skull, an urgency almost capable of begetting thought bubbles? The goat turned its head; its pupils poked with human squint through branches tangled like a map-maker’s waste-basket. At that moment, I knew I’d asked the question. I avoided eye contact, afraid it would realize I thought it was crazy. “I didn’t actually intend for you to answer,” I explained. The goat lowered its head and began to gnaw the soles of my shoes, its beard dragging the ground. The bell around its neck jangled like a tambourine, the lone sound in the reenacted forest. CommentsComments are closed.
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