Clipping the Duck’s Wings

We held the Call ducks,The little pygmie ducks,Together, one at a time,Sunday morning,Nervous as we foggedThe October air.

My father, at the breadthOf reason,And I,Middle into life,Together with theFearful, clucking ducks—Two pair to stock the banksOf the little pondAnd never fly away.

“Cut them here at the first knuckle,”The old bird man had told us,“Snip and throw that firstPart of the wing away.Them birds’ll never fly againAfter that,” he said.

And we stood togetherIn the garagePutting on latex glovesAnd prepping the pruningShears with alcoholLike learned men.

“I could’ve cut a man’s fingers offAnd never blinked an eyeWhen I was younger,” my father said,“But now, I’m old and tenderAnd I wouldn’t do this for anybodyBut you.”

And we performed ourCareful surgeries,Me holding each duckHim clipping at the first knuckle

Of the wing untilAll four were backIn the cage,Preening off the bloodAnd iodineIn a bowl of fresh water.

“They don’t appear theWorse for it,” he said.“But I need to go,”And he turned to leave.

“You’ve got a responsibility nowWith those ducks,” he said.“They’ll expect youTo be on the lookout,To not forget themNow that flyin’s done.”

“Ducks or peopleAre the same,” he said,“It’s easier gettin’ intoMost things than out.”