Poems by Sarah Carleton

Goat at the Intersection

I linger at the stop sign, compelled to take a picture
of the ridgy spine, camo-blob flank

and funky sideways eyes that all declare
not a dog—not to mention the way he bends to gnaw 

the weeds, no tail thump-thumping or head lifting 
in search of special humans, hooves calm amid the tall

stalks and not primed to make a run for it. I’m told 
animal control is trying its best but somehow 

this dawdling farm animal keeps giving them the slip. 
He’ll make his way through the fleabane and tickseed 

and tufty grass along the ditch till it’s dirt low, 
unaware of cars and cameras, 

his nonstop munchies a higher calling,
doggedly doing our mowing.

Finding Sleep

Wrapped so tight air can’t touch me,
a pillow bunched under my neck,
wool blankets tucked taut
to keep out the vapors

I nudge my head onto crooked arm, unroll
from fetal curl, splay legs, loosen covers,
make a space around my tongue
and between my eyebrows

let small doors open, let the busy body
leak out and trail off, leave
unlikely plots to unwind unedited.