taking on the form of a piano swan, we leave in the earlyness.
why have we returned?
we do not have a choice, I think
the swan inside us is floating,
the piano is just being plucked.
the movement is stifled and unstifled
it is a pain to return, to arrive.
In spite of ourselves we were just budding
and closing in on ourselves again
like newly oiled playing cards.
what is a swan?
joy.
what is a piano?
rage.
or maybe, they are both
or maybe more.
We can think of adjectives ( both of us)
and maybe bears will think of verbs ( they like to lumber and bumble too)
and birds, onomonopea:
taking on the form of a piano swan, we leave in the earliness.
returning is like feeling my mother’s absence.
coarse, paining, unhinged.
lightening striking and no thunder
fire and no fighting and no blunder.
the other swan would be my lover,
but I blame his faults on magic, or his naughty brother.
( well, I blame our faults always on magic)
feeling the swoosh of the seaside
and my soft feathers brushing against my hand
unconsciously playing chopin
my lover is playing a jazzy serenade
from a play no one has played:
taking on the form of a piano swan, we leave in the earliness:
I don’t complain.
Sometimes i hear the ticking of my strings in the middle of the night while we sleep.
but I think it’s just me
singing an unconscious lullaby
to an unhinged, unstifled creature
known as me.
Golden Star Poetry 