BY PHILIP LOWE

I never herded sheep; I looked at goats

Some wove, some built, some fished in boats

But as my legs were crippled, used to abuse

I cared for goats and checked they weren’t let loose

My father aggressive and violent

My mother houseproud, caring and silent

At least goats provided with milk and soft cheese

Prepared by mother, so eager to please.

One Yom Kippur our rabbi came by,

Selected two from my herd that caught his eye;

I used to name the goats, so calm and kind

They didn’t deserve the fate he had in mind.

He took them both away, to loose and kill.

My eyes began to prickle as I’d mill

Their endings in my mind; one killed by hand

The other one let loose on burning sand.

My father’d frown and call me stupid, soft,

While washing the days sweat away in the loft

I heard him tell my mother a shepherds yarn;

That of a baby born nearby in a cold barn.

He told him in the inn that they’d frequent

A lovely little boy, he said, then went

To avail himself of fresh air near the bar

All lit up with an unexpected star.

The nearby townsfolk at these times

Would discuss their misdemeanours and crimes

They’d laugh and they would joke, mind,

No matter what distress they’d left behind

The sins that they’d performed since they were born

Would be shown by a ribbon tied round a horn

The goat who would be scourged was sent to fry

Beneath a hostile sun in desert sky.

And so it was believed that he would pay

For their sins with his death on that hot day,

I don’t know if I believe that life has worth.

My legs have been quite useless since my birth

I find I often think of that new boy

I hope his parents tell him he’s their joy. 

My parents never tell me anything good.

I feel just useless like misshapen wood.

I hope they’ll say he can be strong

He can be fast. he can belong

His words can hold a meaning. shouted loud,

He could stand up, stand out from all the crowd.

He could be good. He could be great.

I hope he doesn’t share my poor goat’s fate.