“After The Election”
by Moira Magneson

The morning star blazes in the sky
As I walk up my road. The sharp smell of dung
       trailing the air.      A kind
Of incense. At the hillcrest    a band of brindled goats.
Each scumbling in its own cloud
     of steam. Each heart
Lit by its own lamp.


Their little tails tremble furiously
At my approach.     What have I
          to offer but empty hands?
Still     they lick my fingers with their gravelly tongues.
              Heads cocked. Gauging.


Let me slip through their pupil's black
                                     keyhole slit.
And I will scamper in their scrum of bleat and fur.
                     I will follow.
Skip the wet rocky earth with cloven feet.
                                           I will wager
     All my sins
For this:   Patch of green grass.
     Comfort of the swollen teat. Hot sweet
Milk of the known
                 and unknown world.