You must chop off the duck’s head;
otherwise, after you bashed his skull,
after you ironed him, dipped him in boiling
water and plucked the feathers off,
the phone might ring, and while you discuss
with your sister whether Mother’s memory loss
proves Alzheimer’s and how to prevent
her from wandering past the garden fence
into the neighbor’s meadow, onto the narrow
trail at the foot of the hills, the narrow trail
that vanishes into the hills, into the evening,
into unexplored regions that you imagine
wintry, unforgiving—as you say goodbye,
promise to visit on Sunday to discuss
medical expenses, little sister Julia settled
in Fayetteville with husband and kids
and seemingly oblivious to the mess
shaping up nicely in your birth house,
the duck might wander past you, exit
the kitchen through the open door,
blood trickling down his beak—
the duck might quack and run in circles,
attempting to fly, stunned and naked.

First publication: Karamu. 19.2 (2005): 78.
Second publication: Calyx: A Journal of Art and Literature by Women 23.1 (2006): 69.