Bough of Blessing
I stayed up with him all night;
watched him paint the walls slimy green,
his sides heaving
head hung low.
He watched me with his silvered eyes,
and cried out loud, like a child,
when he hurt too much.
It’s hard to explain to a goat
that Rhodies are poison;
green means go, good, gobble
and all boughs are blessing, right?
Here, I’ll squirt down more mylanta
and vegetable oil and
something for the pain.
This morning, he wanders around his paddock,
all cleaned out and deflated,
vaguely apologetic about his own
But still he eyes the smooth, wide leaves
and wild sprays of pink flowers
the place he is not allowed to go,
his jaw moving contemplatively,
still called by the green.