goose egg

the flock comes to our yard
with their telephones. they call home
to a nest without any location.
i try to convince you to let them inside
but you say, "my love, they are geese.
they will move on soon."
i find their eggs in the mailbox 
& their eggs in the yard like easter hunting. 
i open them & they are all empty. 
some of them, theatrically, emit a puff
of smoke. others, the sound of the ocean.
in a dream once, i laid a goose egg.
i was so embarrassed & terrified.
i did not want anyone to know what kind
of emptiness i had made.
so, i never cracked it open. 
i always wish i could go back
& see what was inside. surely, not a goose.
probably a telephone, ringing & ringing.
my boyfriend in high school once called me
thirty-seven times before i picked up.
i remember feeling like the empty insides
of a goose egg. i finally picked up 
& he said nothing. his breath. the wind.
one egg i find is heavy. i shake it, 
hoping to get an idea of its contents. 
inside, is a perfect egg made of granite.
i burry it & do not tell you.
my hope is that this means the geese
will come back every year.
anymore, i am hungry for
reassurance that the world will keep turning.
will my country kill me? will the geese
never leave? will i always be the one
to open them? 
on the morning that they leave, i weep.
you celebrate. we harvest their feathers
like ripe fruit. i find one last egg
& inside is a little doll-sized hand mirror.
i see just a thumb's worth
of my fearful face.