Goose Girl

I’m taking you for dinner, he said,
plucking a quill to write fear on my flesh.
He’ll order me a salad, watch me graze,
defying my gaze to wander, and later
he’ll pinion me, squeeze me too tight,
weighing me against the rest,
a test that tells him I’m too tough,
not tame enough.

Silly goose, he’ll say, you know I love you
just as you are, but I might love you more
if you were slimmer, blonder, more demure.
Don’t you want us to have a stronger bond?

I don’t like your gaggle of friends, fermenting
their crop of lies, nor your flocking family,
wings more stifling than a duvet. Get out
from under them. I’ve made you a nest,
you’re a home bird now, no more strutting,
puffing your chest for others to gander.

I’m taking you for dinner, he says, plucking
another quill, writing dread on my breast,
locking the door. I try to take off, beating the air,
pounding the floor. Silly goose, he says,
you know you can’t win.
That’s when the sky fell in.