Seven Swans

Brothers dear, known only to me

as letters carved on coffin lids,

midnight visits and a wing’s caress —

Do you think of me when drifting,

passing by clouds and dreams long lost?

Or do you forget my vigil

while soaring high on heaven’s breath?

Bound by trials of silence I toil alone

cradled high in these lofty gnarled arms,

— this Middle Earth —

not high enough to palm the moon,

nor so low as to form clay men

while treading upon barren shores.

By day I weave your stinging shirts

working in sweat and skin and bone.

Binding spells of silence and hope

with silken thread torn from my scalp,

charmed with blood drawn from screaming fingertips.

Come night I scan starry skies for you,

wondering.

Brothers dear, I know your desires

but do you wonder at my needs,

my wishes for fanciful flight?

How could I resist that dark down

lost while you were circling overhead?

Soon you’ll know the truth blood brothers,

if you don’t suspect the truth already.

One of you will live with a token wing

in trade for time spent sewing my own shirt

—of feathers.