The skull hangs over the woodstove- empty sockets and missing mandible conjure the leer of a fallen angel. Better than over the bed as planned, where I imagined the sinister insinuation in those weathered curls of horn might weed out my more squeamish lovers.

The wooly white of his pelt drapes the hope chest- hope long since worn out and left behind, replaced with other sacraments of sentiment; lace tablecloths and heirloom

quilts, doilies and afghans and a baby blanket,

more patch now than pattern.

He died on Devil’s Night, cloaked in irony and a full fleece of winter-ready wool we couldn’t bear to waste- although I had to look away from the skinning knife, remembering when I brought him home; snowy loaf nestled in the trough of my thighs.

We got them for a steal, nanny and kid, after she’d jumped the gate and bred outside her breed- the farmer not wanting to gamble

on the mix, but we had nothing to lose- except the herb garden, the willow, and most of the shrubbery.

And so it was, that this illegitimate imp explored his new domain, teeny toffee hooves bounding the ground four at a time, bleating from the fenceline that milky mewling “maaaaa.” Then, soon enough, belligerent beelzebub, bawling across the backyard with a mouthful of legacy perennials.

His head unwound in a crown of horns, now grown-

twin scythes bending back and around- still able to finagle

through a fist-sized hole to catch our backsides unaware;

Robed with gentle waves of wool, now grown;

no hint of his mother’s itchy oily ringlets- his was the creamiest of cashmeres.

He fell like the season that reaped him- naturally and in full splendor- Even afterward, in the driveway- that collapsed caricature; that luminous pile belying the carnage- while over there, fixed rectangular pupils gawped at us from a head set aside.

I had fled into the house for the grislier bits but came back to help carry the shovels and the old red kerosene lamp that always lit the evening chores. In the wheelbarrow, the rest of him looked almost human- exposed muscles, splayed limbs.

We wheeled him into the black beyond the apple trees, bent to the darkness of our duty like some sketchy satanic ritual or, at the very least, a pair of bungling grave robbers; instead of midnight goat sextons, somber and nostalgic as we turned a hole in the field for his body.

A dead headless goat- by lantern light on Devil’s Night- is no cause for unease; nor, would I argue, are the remaining reminders- this fine cloak and crown, kept from the crypt; not as the hunted, or the haunted, or even the hallowed,

but rather- a sacrifice of sentiment. For if death is the final humility, 

what hope emboldens us to fold our treasure into the tomb?