The first line of this poem is also the title.
I once had a black goat, and it was
slaughtered and barbecued along with my sister's white goat.
The excuse-- well, they were butting everybody
when you went out the door.
You couldn't-- bam!
You know, you'd just step out the door and.
But their horns were just beginning
to break through the skin and was really sweet.
But they-- I don't know, they start
getting on my grandfather's truck,
and they get up on top of it.
And they have these contests, and they were
getting in the way, I guess.
"I have got to stop loving you, so I've killed my black goat.
His kidney floats in a bowl, a beige flat fish around him,
parasites.
Slices of lemon break through the surface of hot broth,
then sink below as I bend, face down in the steam,
breathing in.
I hear this will cure anything.
When I am finished, I walk up to him.
He hangs from a short wooden post,
tongue stuck out of his mouth, tasting the hay-flavored air.
A bib of flies gather at his throat
and further down where he is open and bare
of all his organs.
I put my hand in, stroke him once, then taking it out,
look at the sky.
The storm clouds there break open,
and raindrops yellow as black cat's eyes come down,
each a tiny river, hateful and alone.
Wishing I could get out of this alive, I hug myself.
It is hard to remember if he suffered much."