a journal of fantastical poetry
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