A Canadian Goose Landed in Her Throat

By Jennifer Cahill

Today, she feels her.
She alerts her soul-mates, their storm-
colored bodies. She cries,

her wings contracted, 
a honk mingled with an ” 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 her being, folds

into pastel wings.
They are light, like an American 
shore bleached by the Suns.

Her wet, soft blonde arms 
reach for Irish sea-tints: a bar,
and a rainforest (shampoo).

To cleanse coffee oils. 
Her hands rub the porousness. 
The buoying scents,

like the sparks of incense,
sink into her entity. 
The shrine might flood.

Her hair twists like rope,
enshrouds her loosened countenance 
that is a burnt rose.

The sheen of her skin 
shines in the bathroom’s white glow.
She sings; she lifts the grass-

green towel to dry.
She grabs the faded face cloth,
the hue of a weary

field, barren but for the gold 
butter-cup weeds of the longest
days. she tosses the tough

machine-threaded cotton, 
to FLY, off of her body.
Her damp hair is night

colored; blonde wings clipped 
at birth. Yet, within the misty
brushstrokes of morning,

beneath a gentle 
wedding-white sky with buttercup 
hues the Goose, a wife, may feast, hushed.


Jennifer Cahill earned a Masters of Science in Administrative Studies from Boston College. She has published the poems The Foxy Neutrino and War in the Distance is Better with Arkansas Technical College(2020), and Dusk Colored Wings with The Voices Project(August 25, 2020); Gods Feast on Lost Moons with Tempered Runes(2020). She lives in Massachusetts with her cat ‘Tilly.’

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