mmmdxlii

Goat in Mourning

she rounds the corner,
thumps back onto the
bed beside him, sings,
but softly, largo, “is
giraffe horny?” she’s
wondering, knowing
he is, wherever he
is; but he sleeps
through sun-up,
at least, and
always. so she
lies on her back
in the relative sil
ence, watching the
calligraphy twirl upon
the hanging pottery that
brim with greenery. calico
(the cat, but they always
love to say they’re not
quite certain) notices,
too. her mind wanders
a bit, back to that week
in köhn, of the goats,
the sheep and the
chickens at the
humble farm
where they
had stayed,
how she’d
dressed up,
a shepherdess,
one cool morning,
just for kicks, for his
reaction upon awakening.
coffee laced with salt is
being burbled through,
makes indigestion
noises. and then,
after an eternity,
you watch the lids
of his eyes slowly open
to a piece of ash, two,
that alight upon each
surface, as if contact
lenses, until he blink-
squeezes, blink-squeezes.
“it’s the rubble from aleppo,”
she explains, “and the easter
breeze,” but he’s already up,
turns back to her long enough
to ask “what about the sea?”
before disappearing around
the corner. once the pipes
begin to rumble and squeal,
shoving warmish water up
and through the head to
pour like light rain upon
his wisps (he’s staring
directly into it first,
she knows, rinsing
the ash from each
eyeball), she rolls on
to her side, facing
the window, sing
ing again, teasy,
lazily (he
showers
until the mid-
town clock bongs
ten times, the reverb
erations can be heard
and felt quivering through
their bodies, their souls, the
world, it seems, until half-past
noon): “the sea? why, it
ceases, my love. it’s
always been
ceasing.”