Dominion of Geese
They come out of the lake at dusk
to reclaim the beach from the bathers
and to compose themselves in the wet sand.
They do not speak, nor does the moon
who broods at the water’s edge.
Only in the deep trees the whip-poor-will
still pities himself.
Their bodies are like vessels fashioned
from clay by the hands of young girls,
but they will not be bothered
by our admiration, nor by Mars,
jealous planet, who comes now into our sky,
dark and furious.
From the book, Post-Diagnosis (Ithaca, New York: Firebrand Books, 1995).
Copyright © 1995 by Sandra Steingraber.