Jesus, look after all the ducks
who drift on ponds who
wait in reeds
for absolution who walk
up to children and receive bread
on their tongues who sit
on eggs who first hatch
wet and relaxed and look up
at the sky, the sky so insistent
and blue who wade who tread
with no worry of what lingers
underneath. Jesus, make me
a duck when I die
so my daughters will see
me often, their Duck landing
everywhere. Jesus, let me
feel the air on my crown let me know
water whisking
off feathers know duck feet
dangling in wind.
Do ducks ever die?
Ducks who dive who dare
who decide
one day to be more
than swans, who wait lifetimes
to craft pieces of prayers like this
the right words scattered like feed
at your feet, Jesus, you who can do this
I’m told, my hands folded, my elbows
extended like peaceful wings.