Geese alight at the lake that smells like winter,
the silver globe, my dog and I circumnavigate.
The frequency illusion explains
why geese then pop up everywhere:
in woven land mines, skin prickles,
how the feed store sells life-like plastic invitations
for pond parties, or a friend’s welcome mat
metes out entry through grey and brown dirt.
And Poem-a-Day proffers Mary Oliver.
She tells my body to love what it wants to love,
the animal, wild goose in me, with open skies,
wind songs. I believe I do harbor an inner goose,
though not hers. Mine must be the magpie goose
who shuns the comfort of boats, chatters
over my body drowning itself.
A creature that tears me limb from limb,
who shares my inner homely lake with suburban
raccoons that suck connective tissue
off the busted wheat-pasted piñata of my pelvis,
possums who scrabble through the recycling bin,
licking the fat of my liver like the gunk
in the bottom of the peanut butter jar.
To hate yourself so deeply you feast on yourself
at an animal level, there’s no therapy for that.
Christa Fairbrother, MA, is Gulfport, Florida’s poet laureate. She’s had poetry in Crannog, Epiphany, Pleiades, and Salamander, among others, and been nominated for a Pushcart twice. She is a poetry editor at Phylum Press, and she loves tea and avocados. Connect with her: www.christafairbrotherwrites.com, on IG @christafairbrotherwrites, or BlueSky @christafairbrother.
ELEVENTH HOUR LITERARY 