Forty-four Geese
By Ymus Blumentritt

Forty-four geese in muted strife to beat the cold
Of Fogelsville, and only one will return to nest
In April, south of Franco Farm. They won’t stop
In mid-air to drink sweet waters of the Susquehanna,
Saving that for the homing flight of one bird who won’t
Recall the others that fell en route.

Thirty-four birds that mutely slice my whispering sky
Above the Little Lehigh. Do they dream of green-shiny Beetles and tender grass, small fish and grub when only
One will make it back with half a mangled wing?

Twenty-four pallbearers with quite a ways to go
Before I am laid on bittermelon leaves and thorns
Of the Kawit bamboo. Will they let go of my
Coffin as they tire, drop me to earth like the
Mountain that fell on San Jose, there, there above
The straw-muffed onion beds of Pablo Pascual?

Four strange mourners at my wake, four broken geese
Bound for Salisbury, and still no sign of snowdrift
On my brow. This is tiresome, this long unfruitful
Wait for resurrection. I ask for reprieve, I shed my
Feathers like my mourners, and measure the headlong
Fall to earth with glee.

© Ymus Blumentritt

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