The deflated balloon of her skin slung low under the jawbone after her quadruplets were born, so we gave her red cell, buckets of grain, fresh water. Queenie recovered, ran in the pasture, played with her kids, nestled in straw to sleep, submitted to the tugs and pats of our children. But on the darkest day of the year, she collapsed. I have come to believe our goat died not from pregnancy or its subsequent anemia, but from winter and its violent lack of light. I whisper prayers to my son while we watch my husband pile smiling Amazon boxes on her cold body. The red tongue of fire ascends the pyre. Chickens huddle. Tomorrow’s ash heap will be rare offering among fields silent with snow. The chickens won’t know it came from burning the dead. Clucking in celebration, they’ll fluff their feathers and burrow in blessing. Like strange winter flowers, they’ll blossom from dust.
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I loved this poem. I have friends that I believe to be suffering and perhaps dying from a violent lack of light, which some experience even in the summer. I need to think about the possibility of celebration coming out of the ashes. I’m not sure I can push the metaphor that far. But it does make me feel and think, which I suppose is what all good art does.
What a lovely poem. It also keeps blossoming from the ash as it goes along.
Lauren, thank you for sharing. I’ve heard, and used the phrase “no words”, in an attempt to convey to someone that there is strong emotion, emotion which is difficult/impossible or even dangerous to attempt to describe. How wonderful to share the emotion that you were able to capture with words – and in the loss described find new beginnings and hope that joy returns and the sun will shine again. So blessed that your wisdom and insight reaches out and touches me.