scene with a golden goose
her golden goose
with olive pit eyes
cimmerian pupils, shadowing
her refusal to forgive. this
is a slit from which no light leaves.
her speckled eggs. her stacks of hay.
her hills of horseshit newly heaped.
her blue bucket with water sloshing up
to the brim. her brown and green leaves
shimmying on the surface. her pockets of sunlight
yellowing through the arbor amid the naked
branches of dead pear trees. her old sow
with backbone protruding. her earthworms
wiggling under heavy stones. her dresses blowing
on the clothes line. here is the farmhouse during
an uneasy season, and here is the widow who lost
her senses in the disconsolate flurry of days. she peers
out the window and sees a landscape twenty years gone,
a caravan of romani sipping beers beside blue flames,
stallions galloping over gray hills their tails sloshing
and angels wearing neckties wrestling each other
in the shallow water of estuaries only to sink suddenly
into the tall grasses. she looks out her foggy window
at her golden goose and her fat speckled egg and adjusts
her bathrobe. her moon ascends in a flaming wagon,
and the old woman remains unmoved.
