IMPRINTING (Poem) by Terry McGarry

He was the first moving thing they saw

as one by one they birthed themselves;

the old goose, badly burned, had limped

to the nearby cannery and laid them

in the machinery's warmth, and died.

In emergency mode he had held the fire

extinguishers, oblivious of the fading screams,

and when the barn flames had died, returned

to press gummed labels to the curves of cans,

silent, with no ears to hear their peeping.

Then the cans stopped coming down the belt.

Thus paused, he noticed movement underneath,

and bent to see the small white spheres

break open and release five tumbling lives.

He watched them as he waited for new orders,

but no one ever came. His batteries are weak,

but these little creatures need refueling more,

so he straightens up and rolls into the empty

yard, followed by a ragged yellow line.

For now, they seem content to peck the ground,

and he, with a labeler's soft touch,

to stroke their fluffy wings

and wonder when his turn will come to hatch.

Originally appeared in Aboriginal Science Fiction, March/April 1989.

Winner of that year's Boomerang Award for Best Poem.