it’s early dark february // when the steps to the lake are deadly slick // ice that froze then melted then
froze again // like a lesson i just can’t learn // the water shines a full moon back at us // on a path i’d
walk with you twice // but not three times // you’re talking // i’m listening // (no choice but to listen)
//
that’s when we see it // the dead goose // lying like an angel // on the reed-tangled shore //
we were bound to see a dead one eventually // you say // with all the live ones that pest this place // i say
nothing // no need to be sad // you tell me // all things die in the end anyway // i cough //
back in my room // thick with fog // i cough up feathers // you yellow-eyed poised
you stuff the feathers back into my mouth // along with all the words i have been forced to swallow //
i shove the feathers into my ears // keep out the sticky honey of your voice
i worry if i opened my chest i’d see that all my bones have turned to feathers // some days i worry //
you will be the one to tear me open // i always bend for you // i don’t know where my backbone has
gone // maybe turned to goosefeather // my sheets crumple around the outline of the dead goose //
it only takes one hand to fit around the neck of a goose // so you always have a spare to preen my
feathers // or to pluck
when a goose dies // the flock moves on // shifts its formation to fill up the empty space // and i’ve been
disappeared // i am tangled in the reeds on the side of the lake // watching the geese fly overhead // their
flock unbroken