The last goat

Frisky and fearless
Full four years old
Butting at the slightest provocation.
Locking horns with his brothers
He struck his hoof on the ground
And heaved with his hard skull.

One by one
His brothers and sisters
They had all gone
Sharp knives, blood on stone.

Today on the eighth day of the waxing moon
On this holy ashTami night,
The deity's hunger raged, and
It was his turn,
He, who had never lost his testicles,
He, who was whole
It was the last goat's turn.

They brought him into the little hut
Husband and wife
Seeking divine benediction.
Before a picture of kAli
(Purchased after much search)
They anointed him in sindur
And he bleated playfully,
Butting his adopted herd-mates
Jumping around within reach of the rope
Stomping with his stubbly feet
On the leafy branches,
They gave him for food.

And then at midnight
Under the moon -
Just a tad fuller than a halfmoon
Under a clump of trees off the weed-grown path
They took him, bleating playfully
Off on his new adventure. Then
They tied him to a tree
He struck his hoof against the soft ground
And butted his new playmates
One last time. Then
In the light of a besmirched moon
The sun-dried soil
Was stained dark red.

The next few days
We ate mutton stew.