Swan Song
By Joseph Fagan
There is a laundry called after you,
White Swan: somnolent white-sheets,
Cold-pure and guilt-purged, are freed
There to caress many a bare bottom.
I do not see you so intimately:
There is an other-worldliness
About you I cannot fathom;
Your universe is co-existent only.
Against the flow you glide with grace,
A Viking Long-Ship in miniature:
Recoiled prow; ochre-amber streaked;
Submerged oars; shields extended.
Uplifted, you beat the dense water
To softness with the hammering of
Angel’s wings; shattering the mirror-
Image tranquility of High Heaven.
White Knight of lovers,
Sylph, svelte setter of the pose,
You deign ordinances, opacities;
Oozing primal instinct, knowledge.
Silently, with the washing of bodies,
Suborned, automaton-like,
Submerged, subsuming passion,
The Rites of Spring begin:
The Aspen shivers with delight
And sallow buds glow golden,
Cold water lilies turn their heads,
A heron’s stare is frozen;
The act is done; new life begun;
Mind speaking to mind:
Informs.
Picasso’s Goat
By Joseph Fagan
“I am created from nothing” – she says –
“Well, not nothing, but discarded things: A palm frond is my spine, a wicker basket my womb;
I have ceramic jar udders and metal genitalia; the rest of me is clamped together bits of wood and scrap metal.”
“I cannot see through my brilliant eyes
But I believe that you can.”
“I suppose I am one of Picasso’s women.”