At The Swan

After Leda and the Swan

Pith on each edge of each mouth in The Swan

approaching as your lashes

tail-flick.

Seasoned, thin

Skirted, you secretly think you

can take anything these days. You’ve been

shrinking

thinner through the decades,

and still spitting

feathers. Then I take-

Quick

A drink? Scotch;

Cutty Sark, then you

Limp, listening.

Followed,

you blush and

you kneel and you

grin to recall:

Flapping.