When They Saw Us With Bread, Those Were Some Crazy Geese
how they ran toward us on dark awkward
webbed feet, shrieking from across the pond—
not swimming, not flying, but running
to lunge at us. And the noise! The noise!
I have sung that song before. Song of deep hunger.
Song of want. Song of gnarled throat. Song of now.
Graceless song. Song in spite of one’s self.
You don’t need a poet to tell you what it feels like
to want. You have wanted before, wanted so much
you forgot you could fly. Wanted so much you lurched
and grabbed for crumbs. Wanted so much you honked
in the loudest voice you could to be heard.
By the time the geese reached us, our bread
was gone. They did not sing anymore, nor did they fly,
nor did they attack. They slowly waddled back to the edge
of the water where it seemed to me they remembered
at last they knew how to swim. And was it me,
Or did they look relieved to be gliding and graceful again?