goose down ghazal
a goose waves a wing at your passing car, air
hoisting the last whole piece of its body upwards. your air.
do broken bodies stagger us? or more often, release
a simple gasp; the tiniest ripple in the air.
when you arrive home, tire treads hold cracked quills, remnants
of a tour de carnage, a floating feather caressing the air.
once, you asked your mother who buried bodies
of highway casualties. she told you they burned, ashes thick in dusty air.
watch for the smoke signal of their funerals—deep gray,
a dashing deer; a skunk, gentle jade. clouds recover white air.
imagine being combined with new creatures at your death,
shells of a thousand beetles and wings of a bat soaring midair.
no longer Em, no longer roadkill, but something more
than either; a chimera melded from fire and air.
violet is a millennial poet who has been published in Labyrinth Literary Magazine at Indiana University. She minored in creative writing with a poetry focus. Outside of writing, violet enjoys working with animals, learning Korean, and reading in her hammock.