My Father Converses with a Goose
By Teresa Iverson
He does not speak, though his mouth opens slightly
with pleasure:
in white dress shirt and workday overalls,
house shoes (the ones I gave him,
he always reminds me, that years of wearing
have not worn out)
kneeling, his body once taut
with Sunday righteousness
any day of the week,
relaxes and
against a Southern sun
curves forward
one hand reaching out
just above a touch,
the other, that was wont
to drive home his preacherly will
on the backsides of children—
spare the palm, the belt, and spoil the child—
closed now,
hiding the golden grain
From such attentions
not even a goose
remains impervious:
All bottom and neck,
double curve
straightening
it stretches up
from rubbery orange feet
beak almost level with mouth,
somehow all but eye-to-eye
bilateral to frontal
Here are no hierarchies of station
or affection, but give-and-take
in equal exchange untainted
with self-scrutiny and doubt,
no regrets for too many or too few
moments misspent
Goosey, goosey gander
whither shalt thou wander
He loves this creature of the moment
with a love egalitartian
more fraternal
than vegetarian:
He would not shut it in a narrow box
to live out its time in darkness,
neither would he stop
the owner’s knife from its graceful neck
For him, this goose is safe
being fully terminal
no soul to damn or send
to a goosey Elysium
She holds the camera, my mother, closest to him
and least open,
the two of them in her sights—
backlit by a Southern sun
all-but-set to harvest
the soft, corn-silk tassels
of Scandinavian hair.
Copyright © 2007 by Teresa Iverson.