for Richard Layzell
How did the goat die?
It stepped too high, too fast.
Thunder threatened from the sea.
It bleated once, twice
as air rushed past its belly,
slope crumbling in its fall.
Lightning struck.
Where did the goat die?
An edge of history named Atsitsa.
Grey stones, red rocks, green waves
still calling out for young Achilles,
his mother’s salty tongue.
Flat weeds dried out by long sun.
A rough stretch, full of thunder.
Why did the goat die?
She was chosen.
Or she wasn’t.
No one can say for sure
if gods demanded hoof and horn
or if death simply came to her
in that fast summer storm.
When did the goat die?
As rain began to hit him.
As a rooster began to scream.
As last light left his open eye
and journeyed out into the clouds
that gathered over his pale curves
still warm where his blood stilled.
What goat died?
No one’s. Everyone’s.
The island holds them on dry hills
that cry for rain and thunder.
He was old. She was young.
It wore a jangling metal bell
someone found at Palamari.
Who saw the goat die?
Everyone. No one.
Thunder moved through olive trees
and rain dropped high and fast.
She was prayer. He was supper.
It gave its unknown name forever
to all who journey here to climb.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 26, Issue 3.
Katharyn Howd Machan grew up in Woodbury, CT, a 1950s childhood. Since 1975 she has lived in Ithaca, NY, as a Writing professor at Ithaca College, with a stint at Northwestern University for a doctorate in the performance of literature. She has taught belly dancing on the island of Skyros, Greece, in the Aegean, an island of her heart which she has visited ten times. Her most recent published collections are A Slow Bottle of Wine (Comstock Writers, Inc.) and Dark Side of the Spoon (The Moonstone Press).
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