When they told me the moon was, in part, a goose I put my trust in the probability of misheard cobra taunters.
This one is Sylvester Stallone with a flick knife. That one De Niro on his belly, gut, protruding butt, no instinct.
But it was Sunday and the moon was falling like a reverse of its beginning, slower, sucked in instead of the brutality of being cast aside when planets collide
And on my lawn I saw it. The moon goose.Wrapped tightly like Lance Armstrong outrunning a lie as a tailwind whipped his ass out of shape. Into fate.
Headless it saw nothing. Plucked, long shorn of plumage, flightless and still. Leftover supermarket surplus, Christmas-chucked and forgotten. The moon goose rested beneath the lightless night as what was left of the moon rolled itself into the river and the distortion of its own reflection. Sky hanging. Night dancing. Star crowded.
I copied the moon goose’s stillness. Tried to feel the same vein blocking ice. Made to say a word but thought better of it.
The last goose I knew had been its twin in silence but its opposite in having a head, beak, neck, feathers and life.
I remember that goose, the park goose, dropping its neck low to watch me. Suspicious eyes unblinking as I backed away into the treeline. My hands held up for forgivenes. ‘See, I have nothing.’
The moon goose didn’t thaw. never will. When the days had fallen away as the moon had fallen to drown, I let it stay upon the lawn and didn’t approach it or speak. Let it be, wrapped in its golden blanket like Lance Armstrong contemplating the truth of pure victory and failing to grasp a thing.
When it was gone, when the nights grew brighter, I would still find myself alone in the garden, letting go a pale balloon as if that was any replacement for the ripples of water we lost, the howls, the sweet madness. My hands up. Palms forward. Empty. As if to say ‘See I have nothing.’