Sheepgoat by Elizabeth Gibson


For the Chinese, you are one being
when it comes to birth years. They
don’t care who went to heaven and
who went to hell. And I understand.
You are not evil; the thought of it is
ridiculous and you may be an angel
but it is more likely you are a little
body wandering a hill, maybe wet

and tousled, probably cold. To my
synaesthesia you are mint and gold:
“sheep” is a yellow word and “goat”
is orange or green. Your horns curl
up or down or back like an ancient
rune, not of strength or justice but
of just being, knowing you are you
and are a small creature that roams

and is not ashamed of its life. You
know you are necessary. You are
not quite sure why. Here you stand
squarely, hooves in the mud, wind
whorls in your thin coat, and from
afar you might be guarding gates to
…somewhere. You are only resting
as you consider the size of the earth.


Elizabeth Gibson is a Masters student at the University of Manchester and a member of The Writing Squad. Her work has appeared in The Cadaverine, Far Off Places, London Journal of Fiction, Severine, Octavius and Ink, Sweat and Tears among others. She tweets at @Grizonne and blogs at http://elizabethgibsonwriter.blogspot.com.

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