In myth the swan’s wings stutter,
eclipse the sun, feather me in darkness. 
His tremolo fills my ears: I swoon  
as he swoops inside me, robe blown 
askew by his determination while
I struggle under his weight, bereft of all agency.

But I remember the feral scent of him, 
the hiss of breath that pulsed through his beak
to meet the quickening rhythm of my own 
as I pulled him closer; I braced for
the crackle of quills along my back, my
thighs; later, I traced in disbelief
the bloody streaks they left and hoped 
he would find me again.

[Written by SL Wallach.]