Toby Olson's "Goat" reads like a strange, half-spoken memorial set among farm animals. The speaker seems to ask us to "remember" Goat, but the memory is filtered through Pig, who does most of the thinking here. Goat is the one who eats and digests, spending hours alone, while Pig's mind drifts toward the hen's eyes and the world beyond the fences.
The barnyard feels full of quiet appetite and dangerous wishes. Chicken longs to put its beak to the farmer's neck, a startling image that hints at violence simmering under ordinary routine. Everyone is considering everyone else, yet nothing is said aloud.
The ending is the chilliest part. "Will Goat be missed?" is a real question, but the answer is only that Pig "will consider it." That detached, noncommittal reply gives the poem its mood: wary, observant, and oddly unfeeling. Loss is acknowledged, but barely felt.