"Concession" by Chase Ferree



If every poem I write ends

amidst the leaves or floating

to the clouds, I might as well try

to tell you about the goats.

A whole herd of them

appeared as if from the ground

itself or dumped straight down

from the highway, hundreds

of feet above – paratroopers

or recreationalists, their helmets

shaped around their horns,

their beards dragging in air

as they tumble, I imagine,

in perfect rotations, end

over end around a single

point and landing hooves-first

on grass or spindly branches

in the scrub parallel

to 40th street. From a distance,

I could be sure I saw one falling,

its joints sturdy and malleable,

the perfect shock absorbers. Or

at least I saw it leap fence high

and wondered what it might be like

to watch one climb the balcony

and eat all our plants to the nub.




Chase Ferree (he/him) is a teacher in Seattle, WA. His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Emerge Literary Journal, Peripheries Journal, Juke Joint, and elsewhere.

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