Feeding The Ducks

For Kaya

Rebecca Schumejda

I toss goldfish crackers into the Hudson River .
We watch ducks collect like overdue notices.
Mallards and bill collectors are relentless creatures,
always squawking for more.

Even though I know you can’t understand,
I tell you that your grandfather said debt
makes a man vulnerable, in contrast
your father believes money is an illusion,
and I am petrified of losing what was never mine.

Because, like the ducks, you speak a foreign language,
you flap slender arm-wings until I hand you goldfish too.
I watch you behead each one with your new front teeth
then hold their slimy orange tails in between
your articulate fingertips.

What I want to tell you is that everything that you depend on
will disappear, but you will learn this despite me.
When the goldfish are gone, I throw stones
that sink too fast for the ducks to swallow.

Your father tolerates my fears, for now;
but, the ducks I betrayed are not as patient
they abandon us for an old woman tossing stale bread.