Poem: A Goat Died

A white goat,
stiff,
on its side.
His head twisted back onto his shoulder;
his white teeth exposed.
Flies from his cloudy eyes
land on my hands.

I tie a rope around his neck
and drag him into the woods,
past where the children play,
over a fallen log,
further than where the children should ever go.
But they’ll find him.
They will find him, eventually,
torn apart by scavengers.
They will recognize his white fur.

I drag him through fallen branches,
through weeds,
through mud,
to the other side of the vernal pool.
I have to remind myself that a corpse is not anything.
It doesn’t feel.
It’s not an insult to drag it by the neck.

I don’t want the children to find him.
I don’t want them to play with his bones in the Spring.
I don’t want them to bring his clean white skull back to the house.