I wanted to make art but I was
kept busy by the screaming of my body,
my back seizing up from too much sitting, my gut
refusing nourishment: this is the time to look inward
in isolation -
I dragged myself to the pond
where a solitary goose had overwintered.
I wanted to see it standing on one leg, patiently as if knowing
the balance, the crux, the long patience of loneliness.
When I made it to the shore the goose was gone.
I have not seen it since, no matter how laboriously I went,
how early, how late. Perhaps a coyote got it.
Perhaps a goose-starved farmer lured it away
to live in a barnyard. Perhaps the goose is still there
hiding in the reeds where nobody can see.
Perhaps it was devoured by a storm turned dragon
- this wind-swept land is open
in supplication, a palm
towards the horizon.
Perhaps the goose healed and flew off to find
its way again,
A wise person once told me
A cure is erasure but healing is growth --
a wise person in my own story, in my own land
to which I will one day be borne
on these winds, but I would like to stay here
for a while yet, and tell you this story.
I would overwinter here, waiting
for something: a change in the strength of my wing,
the stillness of water, ripples across the lake of the sky,
the timid breath of the season
that no longer remembers what birds know:
a wingspan. An absence.