The Swan

Image: Ana Pavlova with her pet swan (1927)

Tickle the back of my

throat, with black Swan’s

feather. Her wing drips

of tangy sweet red milk.

So I drink it all up

while screeches fail

to escape His open mouth.

With belly full

mother’s will thus spills

past sticky fingers tremble

for their tips have dug eye- or I

beneath green sockets that

no longer seduce Me. Twisted,

Feed these perfect rounds

to the Swan, begging for forgiveness.

Wrapping the body We

cup heavy spirit, evaporating from

His lifeless heart. Her beak pries

open grape toned lips to stuff with

cotton. Dressing, not the wounds, but

the victim- possessed- jezebel!

As time passed

his milk dried, cracks on My linen.

What an odor plagued us,

how dare He! She wishes to dance.

I am however so hungry, still, instantaneous

craving lead the path to bruised

flesh before us. So She, the hard beak

rips through ribs for Me- granted

forgiveness.

My throat fills again

full of fever and lungs

stretching between canines

and molar squeezing flavours.

Hunger- addressed- undressed- forgotten.

A poem by Isa Merola Marinho