Goatsuckers Poem by Nora Bossong

Dogs trotted through the streets, betimes
goats were conjured up, thrice
we looked for black cats, at least
the cobblestones could serve as substitutes
for mountains. We listened for hoofbeats behind the windows,
the nightjars flew down deep and someone said
they were called goatsuckers. It smelled
like the fly in the ointment as the goats occupied
the city. They ate leaves, feathers,
dog bones. It was autumn when the goats
started mating in front of our house. And the cats
forgotten, and the nightjars deep. It was
only an old wives' tale, that these birds
nursed at the teats of goats. The magic tricks
just a bad joke, and the world
burst in the goat's bellies.
They continued to give milk for three days,
then they were dead.

Translated by Donna Stonecipher