The Geese

I do walk among geese often
who I am aware probably have bird
mites. All day with the two-toned
graphite treatment—washed,
unwashed. Drawing until I need to
take a break. And then my
subjects warily regard me. I’d
be pushing down on those small inner muscles
terrified of the egg
being crushed by my pelvic floor
but needing to know it’s there
if it were me, wishing
I could just hold it up
to the night sky occasionally, the moon . . .
The Canada Goose is the saddle shoe
of water fowl. In addition, babies
everywhere in the park
this evening—different architectural
dynamics: even a gosling flows
like a mini-roller coaster. The infant
accretes, pieces of what one might find in a municipal
drain—cheap plastic
and paper pulp (soft tissue) feeding on afternoon sunlight—
such cloudy rondures.
We eat yogurt for the healthy
bacteria. S thermophilus. After
a colonoscopy I was told (this was written
down on a pad of paper) to eat
more yogurt. Geese eat anything and
everything, like hogs. I’m
not an expert, but they are grazing
right now in my back yard. I’ve
tossed them cocktail wieners.
I wish I could recall what it must have
felt like to be helpless
in the beginning
but not totally hopeless
despite being a shapeless blob.

David Dodd Lee is the author of ten books of poetry, including Animalities (Four Way Books, 2014), as well as a forthcoming book of collages, erasure poems, and original poems, entitled Unlucky Animals. He writes and makes visual art and kayaks in Northern Indiana, where he lives on the St. Joseph River. He is Associate Professor of English at Indiana University South Bend, where he is also Editor-in-Chief of 42 Miles Press.

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