It is a common misconception
that the goose in my brain is silly.
She gabbles thoughtfully,
wondering how to coast on the wind
when the world is shaped like a cage.

My inner goose honks sharply,
mating for life didn’t quite work out.
She plucks her own quill to ask why,
muddy ink insists:
you’re still a good egg.

We’re a gaggle of two,
both tongues serrated to cut,
I forgot
seasons of molting
weren’t made for flight.

New feathers will grow,
Sealed tight enough
to hush winter’s hiss. 
Wings spread wide as longing,
Goose-cackles reverb
against a hoarse sky.

---

Nicole Shepherd is an Appalachian poet and trauma therapist now living in Chicago. Her work explores the survival and holy absurdity of being alive.  She has appeared or is forthcoming in Maudlin House, Orange Rose Literary Magazine, Corporeal Lit and the If You Ever Poetry Anthology.