I walk to the Japanese garden, questing for peace
and consider the colonial nature of that statement.
The path is nocked with arrows: one way during Covid
for us to stop turning on each other. The artificial waterfall exhales
interminably. And Me! Me! a peacock calls, raising his many eyes
to gawk at a peahen grazing. A man with a selfie-stick tiptoes
to get as much plumage in the frame as possible, and when the hen
and peacock run away, rage swells in my throat but I swallow it.
Unable to stand myself or other people, I find a bench and stare
at the lake. A green heron glides above its reflection and lands
on a rock, stabs the water, retracts its neck, gulps.
There is not the fleece of a single cloud.
A woman in flip-flops saunters into view with three kids
galloping behind, ponytails fountaining from the not-quite-tops
of their heads, and as she looks at the sky,
the tattoo on the side of her neck glistens over the ridge
of her jaw and onto the meadow of her cheek.
The kids giggle and crumble bread for a growing crowd
of geese, and I rise to tell them bread isn’t good for birds
but notice one of the geese is missing a foot, just standing
on the shore, watching as the others eat. It paddles the air,
trying to put down what isn’t there. It hops a foot closer,
turns to me as if to say, “Please, don’t you have any?”
and I show my hands, my furrowed brow that feeds
no one. We look at the flock, the kids reaching into the bag
for the last slice, and I almost shout, but what would I say?
There is no more bread.
This poem first appeared in the AUB International Poetry Prize 2023.
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Bradley Samore has worked as an editor, writing consultant, English teacher, creative writing teacher, basketball coach, and family support facilitator. His writing has appeared in The Florida Review, Carve, The Dewdrop, and other publications. He is a winner of the Creative Writing Ink Poetry Prize. www.BradleySamore.com
