It was the restraint in her neck, the boatlike hull
of her body as she waited, perhaps counting her breath,
a meditation in morning light, turning her head only
to the thud of tires cresting the speed bump.
When she rose to cross the street, she cautioned
with a high note followed by two lower notes.
Another goose repeated so they would not know
broken bone or bent wing.
Carefully she stepped in dew-thick grass, black beak open,
pink tongue announcing, and I knew the deeper reason
for easing into the salon chair, for cutting my hair
even shorterto see if you could see, me.
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FRiGG: A Magazine of Fiction and Poetry | Issue 47 | Spring 2016