goat house

on the night the goats ate the house
we were fighting. you were blaming me
for the moon & i was blaming 
the moon for me. i have eaten houses
before. windows & doorknobs 
& all. i grew wings & feathers. you grew
scales. the world was bleeding 
in a river. a snowstorm on top
of a snowstorm. we were forescasted
to wake up as a statue garden. 
i tried to feed the goats my hands.
they learned how to write poetry.
became more curious about the smell
of water & the sound of the color green.
they devoured the cedar tree 
& the thresholds. the rind off the moon.
i thought, "maybe i can fix this."
as an oldest child, that is my impulse.
to put flesh back together. to open
the windows in the attic & let the bats
out to make more night. i did not really
try to stop them. you did & i should
have helped you. i find that for most
of my life i end up a spectator. it is
the most cowardly thing to do. 
bleachers sometimes arrive where
i did not expect them. in the front yard.
the middle of the road. they were hungry though.
i am good at justifying why i have
been gutted. they needed the organs.
they needed the moon. the house inside
the goats. the goats inside the house.
you blaming me for the dirt. the dirt
blaming me for the ash. the sky
trying to kiss us both on the necks. 
i promised you it would not happen again.
it happened again. we did what we had to.
we climbed inside the goats that night.
slept in separate stomachs. 
still, i reached out to touch your hand.
you returned my caress. do not forgive me.
i just want to be kept. in the morning
the house sounded blue.