An Aluminum Foil Swan

 

 

There’s leftover lamb tagine

inside the belly of the swan

 

you carry by its neck,

your other hand warming through

 

the lining in my coat pocket,

jingling my keys as we rise from the subway,

 

four blocks to go.

I shorten my stride to yours

 

while we crunch along the snow:

the garbage cans look pretty

 

in their hats, and the sky

no longer matters, the snow might be

 

falling up from the streets or even from

the streetlights, personally.

 

I wasn’t thinking about the world personally

or the gods when I imagined going to bed with you—

 

but then the waiter strangled our dinner

into two wings and a neck.

 

I almost never want to admit

the violence of my desire, and so I tried

 

to concentrate on how his hands

must have surely smelled of cinnamon,

 

a little song I might remember.

Now, at last, the cold has chilled the wine in me,

 

but then you turn to stop us in the snow,

bump our bodies in our coats, too thick to hug,

 

and with a secret smile jingle my keys again—

and I’m called home, the animal’s bell rung.

 

 

 

© Alan Michael Parker

www.amparker.com