What Would It Be

to be the queen of goats,
to know that the other does recognize
in the bearing of your horns,
the curve of your ears
that the content of your coat
has more value than theirs?

Sorority sisters vying for titles
and crowns, frat brothers combed
and carded after Saturday scrimmages,
their worth silently dependent
on the fleece ranging among granite
boulders of Kasmir mountains.

Each nibble of grass, each touch
of muzzle to a chilled stream,
warmth transfigured in a commercial
array of sweaters and coats, slacks
and scarves, neutral nature subsumed
in purples, magenta, and sunburst gold.

What would it be to be the goat
that year after year sacrifices
companionable fleece, intimate fibers,
to the intrusive burr of the electric
shear, naked to spring winds and rain,
not knowing the value of cashmere?