"Fragment" by Katherine Gaffney

Listen

In the lane opposite us, my love and I witness

a car stopped beneath the train trestle, both

driver and passenger depart their vehicle

to remove a Canadian goose from the path

humans take to volley from one side of town

to the other; whether she is hurt or dead is a fact

we cannot discern. We confess to each other

that we've kept objects treasured but broken 

— a ceramic lid to a thrift-store dish, a glass

ornament passed down through generations.

This small body plucks our truths. Her long

neck, her night-and-day head, her heathered

torso stay with me each time I pass beneath

the bridge. How different are we? On our way

from point A to point B. The goose bloomed

a fragment in the road for some time, perhaps

other drivers hoped she might animate and fly off,

startled but mobile, just as we harbor our fragments

of glass and pottery waiting for a way to mend,

make whole again. The uncounted number

of shards sequestered in a least-favorite coffee 

mug or a tired cardboard box are secrets we want 

to ask each other, as we could not ask ourselves

how heavy the goose would feel in our arms.

Featured Art: "entrance rites" by painter Mar