by Tikvah Feinstein
It was night when the goat
full with kid, lay on the cold shed floor
bleating in labor.
Sounds of anguish understood
by the man, he pushed through the half-open
door. Flashlight in hand illuminating
two wild dogs, who didn’t stop their feasting
on the kid’s body, still emerging
from the birth canal, the mother thrashing
about, straining the rope leash around her neck.
She was screaming like a fire engine
when the world stopped.
The man aimed the next bullets at the dogs,
bloody mouths, still open, they slumped over
the still-kicking kid. He would suffocate
the man knew, as he backed away and walked,
slumped, back to the cottage. What a scene
the day will show, he thought.
he felt old.