Karl Weschke
Leda and the Swan
Paul Cezanne
Leda and the Swan
Leda and the Swan
Leda
He claimed no knowledge of that night.
But I could not forget the smack
that bruised and stunned, his appetite,
bill jabs on neck – cannot take back
what he had seized. I tried to reach
the god inside, batter his wings
with words, ignore his barb, his beak.
The beast gropes, guzzles, hovering.
He’ll blame the drink, escape behind
the wine, the swan. Feathers inside
my mouth, I remain mute and blind.
A quickening before he flies.
He lives his lie. The battle rolls.
I ache, cannot stand on the floor.
But my own kind with push to fight:
She’ll throw a feast. She’ll thrust a knife.
He claimed no knowledge of that night.
But I could not forget the smack
that bruised and stunned, his appetite,
bill jabs on neck – cannot take back
what he had seized. I tried to reach
the god inside, batter his wings
with words, ignore his barb, his beak.
The beast gropes, guzzles, hovering.
He’ll blame the drink, escape behind
the wine, the swan. Feathers inside
my mouth, I remain mute and blind.
A quickening before he flies.
He lives his lie. The battle rolls.
I ache, cannot stand on the floor.
But my own kind with push to fight:
She’ll throw a feast. She’ll thrust a knife.
~ Elise Paschen ~
