Swallowing the Sun
Polly Brown

The goat stands at this moment for
all the cloven-hooved—or more,

for all whose lives rely
on the work of chlorophyll,

powering cells, stems, leaves, and these
dandelions, newly-minted,

on the other side of the fence.
She folds herself, bends

like my grandfather kneeling
by the bed to pray; she sends

the long muscle of her tongue
through the mesh of the fence. Not one

to give up any gift, she reels in
that green and gold many-petaled

wafer of the sun,
and swallows it down.

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