Mother’s day. We talk about
our vaccines like they’re newborns.
We stalk three mourning cloaks
into the trees & then, on the way out,
are waved down by old ladies
blocking
the driveway of a big house. It’s been crying,
they say, pointing to a gosling,
chirping like a phone,
attempting to run into weekend
traffic. Somehow, there are no adult
geese anywhere. Over the phone, the humane
society suggests containment
& same-day delivery
to a wildlife rehabber. We follow
the gold & brown bird
into the back yard & I throw
my denim shirt over it
like a butterfly net. A man emerges
from the glassy house
with three kids. We shout
greetings like we’re old friends, the gosling
weighing less than the idea
of property or protected
wildlife. But crying babies & alarm
systems all speak the same language:
DISTRESS DISTRESS
HELP AHHHHHH so he forgives us
our trespasses. I keep my hot hand
cupped around the bird
on the drive
to the weekend emergency
veterinarian. It settles, one flippered foot up,
looking at me. I want to stroke
its downy side, but I don’t,
not knowing how many interventions
each of us can afford.
I want to issue a blanket apology
for all the bumps in the road, for the concrete
world we’ve built, but I don’t.
We wait for the sick pets
ahead of us in the sun-hot
parking lot to be seen to
before surrendering
the gosling like a long gun.
