very odd for a swan to be alone

Crying fowl, the carved wounds on you take flight.

Your grounded white downy body,

greasy upon my hands, empty.

I imbibe you as your executioner

of plumage and flesh, the one who eats the insulate

Finding all the dust-choked pond pieces

that have become sodden, over the years:

The one who went prowling. I found you

this time, you who spent all that time growing

from an egg, you, the wettened,

smelling of birch trees, until the day we slayed you.

I’ll encase you, sleep remembering,

but forgetting something soft as you.

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