Monday, June 29, 2009


So, she is here still, the she-goat,
with her sagging, suffering belly,
feet spread wide for balance. I think

Picasso, the alert craftsman, saw her
one day in a dry field somewhere
in Spain, and brought her here to enter

her bronze phase, her permanence; her udder
still stiff with impending milk, her bony nose
long as an old Caesar's, though she's so young -

look how her haunches are pushed forward,
how her narrow eyes, that would have been
yellow, show all the remembered heat and

heaviness, the nights of stars, windy mornings,
the shoving and tugging of lust; and the kid -
it still squirms within. I came to new York,

to this garden, to see just this, the horns
jaunty as ever, the same one broken off at
the tip. Because I want her to live for ever.

Lauris Edmond

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