Swan Aubade
       

At dawn the feathers shriek
through our pores like smoke.
Our bones shrink from their marrow,

the seams of our clavicles
steamed flat.

No nettle shirt and star
flowers, no six-year silence
to molt our wings permanently
to wrists.

Ours is an uncommon spell.

Your arrow should have struck
me through, my plumes plucked
for the hat of your bride. You will wake
from me in that forest, our flotilla
a crenellated dream.

At dawn I am numbered
by the Swan Master. At dusk,
by God.

Pray for dogs to break
the circle. Pray for poison
in the sedge.

My neck is always half
your heart.

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Copyright © 2014 Abigail Cloud All rights reserved
from Sylph
Pleiades Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission