Wednesday, January 16, 2013
then waited for the light to rise.
It did, like a lion's head--
full of a violent promise.
It was too bright, the smile of a lover who lies.
I knew then,
even without looking at the lake,
that the swans were back
and that I
Swans, your natural collaborators--
one moment serene, and the next, stabbing at things,
as you do with your brushes and cotton balls
when you're angry.
You are the swan-mother,
and they follow you
like cirrus clouds behind a blue sky.
The glass falls from the table,
its bones exploding as if it had the bends.
Then, of course, the Ouija turns,
at random, toying with me
the way the swans do with sunlight.
there is the ring without a finger,
spinning gracefully on its golden edge,
making that silly, dull, cardboard-voiced sound
on the Ouija where it says, quite clearly,