They told me I was going to make a movie.
So that morning, I dressed in my blue
seersucker romper that tied at each shoulder
before they called me out into the back yard.
“No, Honey. Go back in and come out slowly.
And smile at the camera.”
So I came out slowly
smiling at the camera
and made my way down
by the small, inflatable pool.
“Wave for the camera, Pumpkin. Smile pretty.”
And from the corner of my eye
I could see a large, white
fluffiness drifting toward me.
“Oh look! Here comes Goosey.
Wave to Goosey.”
And I waved at the goose,
who was inching closer
as if in slow motion, her head tilted
and that single pea of an eye
fixed on me.
“Look at the camera, Sunshine, and give
Goosey a pet.”
And when I reached out slowly to pet
the goose, she exploded in a haze
of wings and feathers, and I fell backwards
into the pool, and I could hear myself screaming
under water, and when I opened my eyes
I saw above me two distorted faces, their mouths
moving and four giant hands reaching in
to save me and for a second
a furious beating of white wings.
After dinner I was given five ginger snaps
and a cup of cream as appeasement.
I went to sleep that night, and to this day
I understand why dreams are opposed.
I understand how soaring is developed.
I understand why the goose had to be in the movie.