My Dear Gosling

By Aruna Gurumurthy

She runs on blades 

of bending grass by the pond.

 

Mama, when I grow up, 

I want to be like you,

 

honks 

 

my dear gosling,

stretches her curvy neck,

raises her beak in the air.

 

In her white pajamas,

a fuzzy down, a yellow bill,

she waddles to me

 

holding a bouquet

she cannot handle, 

hands me the flowers.

 

Happy Mommy’s Day!

 

A tuft of tulips glaze

on a summer day ablaze,

they blush, say a little something

 

to the disheveled leaves sweeping mama’s face —

 

You are the best!

 

I wear a “Mom” t-shirt for brunch,

the O, 

a wreath of fern sewn with care.

 

One among a paddling of tiny geese,

my four-year-old 

squats beside me at brunch,

 

drumming her feet, 

patting the table,

waiting for the party to begin.

 

She gulps orange juice,

we watch its pulp 

drip down her chin.

 

She flips in her chair,

her crayons wiggle

as she jiggles away on paper

 

with artsy rhythm,

 

then, dives into the waffle with a fork,

slicing through its buttery layers,

splashing crumbs,

 

licking the falling drops of maple syrup

on her tender tongue.

 

She fills in the strawberries and the sun 

on the the kids’ menu.

 

We wag our tails, 

play tic-tac-toe, 

the winner says Yes!

 

She twists her neck

to kiss me,

her feathers curl, becoming 

 

the mustache on my upper lip.

 

The gander moves his head, 

watching the motions, 

dancing to emotions.

 

We wave on the hammock, our feet knotted,

I tell her stories of brave hearts

and kingdoms falling apart,

 

she wraps around my bosom, I love you Mama.

 

Once a little wriggle in my womb,

the beauty of deity

Baby Krishna,

 

a tiny egg

sitting in a nest 

of mama’s breast feathers,

 

my hatchling,

she has grown into a dainty goose, 

dancing in the marsh,

 

showing off her plumes.