I came here for her. She said there were lakes to rest in,
water the color of prisms born of coal and creation. I
would never have to come ashore except to ride her,
pale back of curved beauty, long necked swan.
I am caught in her nape of lies, her branches
and boughs. Everywhere there is doubt and drought.
It won’t rain, no matter how much she beats
my wings. Fire blooms in the trees. I am afraid
for the span of my feathers. Her breast leaves
mine again. She has forgotten how to stroke
in the direction of my growth. Ruffled,
heavy in the bones, gone to fat,
I catch her looking at me while she
cooks dinner, a different kind of appetite.
She started putting a leash on me while
we walk. As if there were somewhere
for me to fly to. I waddle after her, calling
for her love. Leda. Leda. Leda.
It’s impossible to pronounce
with my broken bill,
my shallow tongue,
my stuffed gullet.
This is why the swan
never gets a name.
Words written at Jewel Box
Time Taken 15 minutes or so.
Brain on gods and monsters, hot men in suits, slut-shaming, fiction writing.