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27
Joan Seliger Sidney
Hit-and-Run Head held high, Mother Goose leads her brood across the highway, as though they own the road. Speeding round the curve at forty, too late I see this long gray line of goose and goslings marching. Too late I spot the row of cars on the other side stopped, their drivers glued to the show. Do they think Nature’s in charge at showtime? On stage: Make Way for Ducklings, mama and brood. But I know the line of cars behind me will tell another tale if I slam my brakes. No short stops on this road. I pray for goose and goslings to fly, not march, as I drive straight into their parade. What I see: feathers flying, what I hear: THUNK! parting the seaspray of flesh, blood and bones. Unholy shower! Come back, parade of goslings, instinctively marching behind your mama. Now it’s my turn to brood. If only I had picked a different time or road. If only I were returning home, not racing to another doctor’s appointment. I lie on the treatment table, another world, wondering what, if any of this, the therapist will see. She lifts my legs, follows my body’s cranial-sacral roadmap. You’re in a diagonal twist. What else will my body show? Very tight adductors, too. What’s up? Enough brooding. I unspool the cause of my hit-and-run guilt, late March. Slowly her hands release blockages, energy marches cell to cell, muscles relax, my body returns to another healthier state, away from primitive fight or flight. Brooding displaced, we joke about fleeing the crime scene; pursuing deer with bow and arrow, a garden showdown. Your goose is cooked, black humor to distract from a road
2020
