She doesn’t know the word for goose

me in a hoodie, her in a hijab

beside a canal clad in winter

Big duck

she says smiling

accepting the crust I offer

Her hands cold

quietly mobile

like fish in shimmering water

Casting crumbs

across the towpath

we laugh at the frenetic feeding

Birds honking

hissing, cackling

a crescendo of noise, of survival.

Goose, I say

my finger points.

Geese, my arm arches a bridge.

Yes, in my homeland, geese

I saw, before the war

Just luck she says, frowning

where the bread falls

where the bomb falls

who the shrapnel shatters.

She didn’t know the word for goose

but she knew how to pluck pleasure

and meaning from a moment.