Island, With Goats
                        Coral Bay, St. John

The hard-hooved, thick-furred bodies packed
          so tight with themselves there is no room

for doubt. The dark tulips of heads, holding
          the otherworldly eyes. Three points

of an open arrow they cross high grass, bending
          the wind on their silken ears, or wrestle

in pairs — forelegs raised in friendly threat — then
          collapse into each other, their small horns

touching: Unable to see the failure in myself,
          I thought the world had let me down. Only

the goats, in their indifference, helped. For almost
          thirteen months, I gave myself to them

as you, entranced, might sacrifice days and nights
          to a newborn child or a foreign city. I mapped

their devouring search for weeds and water; I memorized
          the ancient shapes of shadows their bodies cast;

I lulled myself, when I could not sleep, with
          the sweet and sober music of their footfalls.

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Copyright © 2015 Rose Solari All rights reserved
from The Last Girl
Alan Squire Publishing
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission