Steven Sanchez
Waterfowl
With the webbing torn
from his right foot,
his toes point
perpendicular to the ground
before each step like a dancer
aware of his body’s whole weight.
I tell myself he walks with grace,
that his foot isn’t limp
like a wrist. (I want to make him
powerful.) I will break him
a piece of this loaf
to swallow
before the rest of the geese
devour everything. I know,
though, that waterfowl
who live near man
fill themselves on bread
until they can’t eat anything else.
I tell myself I won’t kill him
with this one meal,
that I haven’t starved his bones
of nutrients, that my offering
won’t contort his skeleton,
won’t twist his wrists backward
into an eternal game
of Mercy—
but when that happens,
some call it Angel Wing,
as if words can make pain beautiful,
as if there is salvation
for every harm I’ve done.
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