goat grease 

we get warm as butter skin
in the larva sun. it has just stopped
raining & there are eyes in the mud
& eyes in the clouds & eyes 
blinking in tree knots. i pet the goats
until their grease gets on my hands &
i am one of them. we go 
uncover the wings from beneath
the old sycamore. the goats are laughing
& they ask me when i will grow horns.
i lie & say that i'm a nubian,
a hornless brother. at night i have seen
the goats stand on two legs
& walk up the road to an ancient fire.
i do not join them. instead, i walk around
with the grease on my hands. 
wait longer than i should to wash it off. 
savor the ripe grass smell. then, finally
in the sink, i scrub my fingers. 
see myself in the window above the sink.
me with a goat face or else a goat
on the other side of the window.
soon enough it will be morning
& everyone will have to be four-legged again.
it's hard to scrub the grime from beneath
each fingernail. i do. i try to be
human. it has never been easy. instead,
i am prone to brief & unsuccessful bouts 
as other species. as the moon dips herself
into a bathe of feathers, i go out
with buckets of sweet-smelling feed.
the goats speak & i call back, not knowing
what i'm saying. our throats like mud rooms.
i reach for them. stroke their thick coarse fur. 
their grease between my fingers.