I almost speak a foreign language.
The words that dribble from my tongue
Bounce to the floor and back again.
Oberhasli becomes brown and black,
And I say Toggenburg but you hear Toggehasli,
Which is almost correct,
A type of rightness that lies
In the mixing and breeding,
A Recorded Grade is no different.
And I smear words like Nigerian Dwarf
In your ear, and butterfat,
Hoof-care becomes nothing more
Than the slicing of the stifle
With the dewlap.
The Boer and the Alpine,
The Allrhyme, the Saltine, the Whithers
Or Wethers, the LaMancha, the Sable, the Angora,
She is full in the crops
With a flank free of excess flesh
And a high medial suspensory ligament,
And you say,
“It’s a goat.”