Call Me Easter

The Lady of the Lake’s hands buoyed me, a
floundering drake atop glassy waters, ‘til gifting
my panic to a denim blue farm boy on shore who
cradles my belly between his elbow & forearm

my downy body compressed like a pillow
against the teen, left me gasping for air,
seeking reprieve in the sinful lagoon where
tears pool into the tarn—nature’s baptismal font

thrashing like a clueless saffron-faced POTUS or
prime minister, my ebony eyes glanced through vagabond
strands of a straw-yellow hairpiece, gazing afar at
feathered flocks—freedom on wing flying north

as if in mourning, I watched my present glide into the past;
restrictive movement prevented me from joining either
through actions or memories, doomed to recall
intermittent, quixotic quacking as the Lake Lady’s perfect

palms & slender sylph-like fingers rescued all that’s
dysfunctional, delivering me from nothing but my
pathetic fowl fortune: an inability to lead ducklings,
inspire followers—let alone fatten-up for dinner.