Swansong: a theory of poetry

by Maya Chhabra

Out of every dozen,
a few will get away, 
swan-white against the moon.
Of the those you catch, 
one or two will bite and crack bone 
with those massive outspread wings.
Five will bear your touch long enough
for the nettle-shirts to transform them
and then move on, quite ordinary,
resuming their dull mortal occupations,
leaving you there with aching, empty hands.

Only one will speak
and yet keep his wings.

May 8th, 2019