Goat

Dusk, deserted road, and suddenly

I was a goat. To be truthful, it took

two minutes, though it seemed sudden,

for the horns to pop out of my skull,

for the spine to revolutionise and go

horizontal, for the fingers to glue

together and for the nails to become

important enough to upgrade to hoof.

The road was not deserted any more, but full

of goats, and I liked that, even though I hate

the rush hour on the tube, the press of bodies.

Now I loved snuffling behind his or her ear,

licking a flank or two, licking and snuffling here,

there, wherever I liked. I lived for the push

of goat muscle and goat bone, the smell of goat fur,

goat breath and goat sex. I ended up on the edge

of the crowd where the road met the high

hedgerow with the scent of earth, a thousand

kinds of grass, leaves and twigs, flower-heads

and the intoxicating tang of the odd ring-pull

or rubber to spice the mixture. I wanted

to eat everything. I could have eaten the world

and closed my eyes to nibble at the high

sweet leaves against the sunset. I tasted

that old sun and the few dark clouds

and some tall buildings far away in the next town.

I think I must have swallowed an office block

because this grinding enormous digestion tells me

it’s stuck on an empty corridor which has

at the far end, I know, a tiny human figure.

JO SHAPCOTT