A husband puts an afghan over the dead goat’s



torso, combs the knots out of her beard.



The goat smells chalk, wonders when the riders



will come in their wool pakols red from walnuts, spurs



chirring like castanets. The buzkashi whips



will grow damp in their mouths, their rope belts



slowly twisting in place. She knows



not to be devoured is a perfect sentiment



because she has thoughts to gather, faces to grow,



hunger this morning and no throat, only



the song in her teeth that goes on



indefinitely as he saws off each hoof, just



above the ankle, her knees bent for praying.



Her head is axed. Her collar



falls to the ground, its circle unbroken. She looks to see



how deep is the pool of blood is a river



of no one becoming her. With salt in her heart



she’ll stay good for days. He’s been to her like her father



he killed. He’s been to her like the father he killed.



He turns her face to the window: mountains



oddly still in the milk broth of oblivion. Intercourse:



the sun drove a man in the ground like a stake.





