portion of the artwork for Eugenie Juliet Theall's poem

Canada Goose
Eugenie Juliet Theall

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 shorter—to see if you could see, me.

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FRiGG: A Magazine of Fiction and Poetry | Issue 47 | Spring 2016