COMPANIONS
Elisavietta Ritchie
That goose hides in your knapsack
cackling or venting an awkward honk
when you least expect.
You zip the bag, lace the strings tight.
A beak pokes out, long neck snakes around,
eyes gleam like hatpins, weedy breath on your neck.
Down clings to your hair like milkweed fluff.
One night it's a Canada goose,
another: plain barnyard, or showy white.
And you could not kill him, or her,
though you hint a taste for pate.
You hang your pack on an oak, slip away....
The goose wiggles out, lifts the strap off
the branch, and, as if mated for life,
waddles down the road after you, bag in beak
like an elderly lady lugging her purse,
day and night keeping watch, keeping you.
