A goat shoves his nose between my legs
while we are herding them. You do not look amused.
There are strange things I have learned about you.
How you only feel at peace with that which you possess.
At dinner, you busy yourself in the kitchen.
Normally, Wednesday is my turn, and I make
you eggs on bread. But today I’m setting the table.
On my plate you serve a bright concoction:
shavings of beet, long tender stem of broccoli.
Dribbled over we have peanut oil and mayo.
Laid on top, a cut of meat –
the taste of it strange, comparable to beef.
Kaylen Forsyth is a Creative Writing Student beginning an MA at the University of Manchester’s Centre for New Writing. She is originally from Maryport, and her poetry focuses on the minutia of the Cumbrian landscape, as well as the link between the psychological and paranormal.