A Canadian Goose Landed In My Throat

Today, I feel her- she alerts her soul-mates, their storm- colored bodies. She..cries, her wings contracted, a honk mingled with a " I am amongst you", and chimes so dampened, they toll like Hemingway's Bell. A Goose, Canadian- a wife- is in my dried throat this morning, within the drops of the shower; a peal, but a high note "oppressed". The fat, so off-key with the song of my being, folds into pastel wings. They are light, like an American shore bleached by the Suns. My wet, soft blonde arms reach for Irish sea-tints: a bar, and a rainforest (shampoo). To cleanse coffee oils. My hands rub against the porousness. The bouying scents, like the sparks of incense, sink into my entity. And the shrine could flood. My hair twists like rope, enshrouds my loosened countenance that is a burnt rose. The sheen of this skin shines in the yellow watt's glow. I sing; I lift the grass- green towel to dry. I grab the faded face cloth, the hue of a weary field, barren but for the gold butter-cup weeds of the longest days. I toss the tough machine-threaded cotton, to FLY..off of my body. My damp hair is night colored; blonde wings clipped at birth. Yet, within the misty brushstrokes of morning, beneath a gentle wedding-white sky with lilac lace, she may feast, hushed.