220: The Goat in the Square

"Why is there a goat there?" I was looking down

into the empty square. Empty —

except for the goat. It stood on a green patch,

white with streaks of brown, curved horns,

methodically chewing grass.

"Come away," they said behind me. "Don't look."

My gaze lingered on the goat, but I went back

and they leaned close to confide that,

"Nobody knows how it got there."

"Nobody knows whose it is."

"It never leaves, unless it sees someone."

"Did it see you?"

I didn't know. I had been too far up, I thought. Still,

I looked back across my shoulder

and went deeper into the house.

But I can't shake it, the feeling that I had been seen,

that the goat is watching where I stood, still chewing.

When I look in the mirror, it hovers like a crooked

gnarly fairy, behind my left shoulder,

yellow eyes unblinking, slitted pupils, horns,

and a beak-like nose. It still watches.

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Written by: Katrine Hjulstad

Instagram: @katrinehjulstad

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Publisher's note: All poetry published with Eudaemonia Records has been viewed and commented on by our editors. Ultimately, however, we believe that it is the writer's decision to accept or reject any suggestions made by the editors, and therefore take no responsibility for the final product.