The Swan

                                                 I wonder what                                                            the smoke of a                                         dead swan’s body                                                          smells like.                                            Like the wind through                                                  a keyhole from                                      a different century.                                                   Like my dead                                            mother’s jacket, wet                                                   from rain and                                                             bombs.                                              Sometimes, I find a                                                    raindrop on its...

Purchase an archive subscription to see the rest of this article.