TWO POEMS by SAM BOVARD
The Goose
The rain has started to fall upwards, droplets
running from rivulets up the gutters,
making quite the opposite of the sound
they made coming down. The clouds chuckle
and blossom, swelling and blowing away.
The chicks are crawling back into their shells,
sealing the cracks with their translucent
beaks. The light leaves from your body
to the lamp. Everything, it seems, is backwards
today. I am not sadness, I am its leaving
as it’s coming. Confusing, isn’t it? Leaves grow
unnoticeably smaller, fans spin in the other
direction, ants follow the ant behind them.
The Goose tattooed on your leg has started to
flutter away from your skin. Mary Oliver
begins to dig her way out of the ground.
The only way to walk forward is to
step backwards, and to sleep is to be awake.
Oh Goose, why did it have to be today?
Day 16
Oh Mary I’ve been so unwell
I’ve been missing you more than
ever, though you never claimed
to know me. My leg throbs
and I can’t make it stop.
I feel entirely transparent at times,
like a glass frog, my organs exposed,
tiny intestines moving tiny food,
a tiny heart beating with tiny desires
pressing against the windowpane of my skin.
Please open up the grave, let me
just whisper one more secret into
your ear, we all are in need
of a friend with sealed lips.
Sam Bovard (he/him) is a gay poet and MFA student at The University of Montana. He writes about encounters and grief, and the powerful intimacy of both. Follow him on Twitter @SamBovard.