Tania Rochelle


Because the Guy in the Red Pickup
Ran Over the Goose on Purpose

 
No one honked the horn as the lady
in skirt and heels lifted
the warm body from the road, the bird
heavier than she imagined,
like a small, sleeping child.
She buried her face in its feathers,
was surprised by the smell, lake-water
and silt, by the way a body
holds so much of the past.
Next she was driving, but where,
the goose dying in the back seat.
What now? Anger
at the goose, of course,
winged creature. She should have known
that road, that man, meant danger,
should have flown.






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