Anna's Goat

(From the painting: Tobias and Anna by Rembrandt, 1626)

Here's Tobias, sunk in his chair like
an old boat, sails ragged and out
of wind, reeking of garlic,
onions and bird droppings—the cargo
it carries.  The bearded head flung
back to the light from a window he'll
never see again, the callous
hands knotted in prayer: Sorry I am,
he bleats, for accusing me, Anna,
of stealing the goat when he's not
sorry, no.  God!  So little trust between us.
Even the mutt, springing to greet me,
licking my sandaled toes, sniffing
the goat—but not husband, no—only
the pointing finger: You took it,
you! And all those back-aching hours
I worked on that punitive farm.

He's wailing now, beating his breast,
absorbed in self, while I, like a thousand
other old wives milk the cow, scour
the house, concoct a meal of mutton, peas,
gruel he'll slop on his lap, then
complain I starve him—him!  when all
the hunger is mine—watching that
pious old boat rock and rock all day
at its mooring, with no destination in sight.

by Nancy Means Wright                   

Published in Comstock Review, '08: "Poem of special merit"

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