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.
Copyright ©
Jennifer Cahill
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