Volta

--Karina Borowicz

       

One by one the three stray geese

heading away toward Mt. Tom swerve

and are pulled into the bold V

moving toward me over the splintered

remains of the cornfield.

It's almost Christmas.

The gouged mud of the field

has frozen solid, sharp

even through boots.

What do they feel through their feathers,

up there, that's out of our reach?

For a moment I imagine my hands pierced

by all those quills.