Poetry: "The Lesson"

By Matthew Guenette

The little plastic goat was waiting
on my desk in the classroom. During the lecture
on how to fit sources,
while I explained the three grammatical aspects (Intro-
mission, Sour Cream, Citizen’s Arrest)
as well as the conceptual (Evapo-
transpiration) I allowed the goat to graze
the field of notes projected overhead.
The goat amplified to actual goat size,
the words grew thick
as soda cans. I flicked the projector’s
negative switch and messed
with its iris to x-ray the plan.
I pointed out the goat’s plum-colored
inner goat, its broken ribs, the void
within the devoured words. I was geared up
for profound whatnot from the heartland
of Matt, but this jackass in the back
row interrupted me. He’d been cracking wise
the whole time, to impress the farmer’s
daughter nearby whose breasts
spilled like sugar from her shirt.
He shot them furtive looks
like they were disembodied bats
come to take his temperature, then he nearly fell
backwards in his chair. I took it personally
(wrong I know, but my soul was a plastic goat
just then, lacking in its judgment),
so I drop kicked his front teeth
from his thick melon head. When I dumped him
out the window he crashed
through the greenhouse below,
into the lab where they were dissecting pigs.
I jumped down after him, grabbed
the front of his Dude Alpha Phi t-shirt,
then backhanded him in and out
of consciousness like a silly little bitch,
which is how students
later described it to the Dean.