THE SWANS FLEW OUT OF THE SUN
like scorpions of the air,
like locust. We shot
& they fell like laundry sacks.
Bad idea. More came.
White plumage blocked
the sun, like weather.
Like one bird.
We watched the swarm
from our parks & balconies.
We shut down the city.
We shot with antiaircraft
guns, cannons.
But these were unhappy gods.
They won the city.
Years passed.
Our thoughts turned again to beauty,
to ontology. Their coming
had been prophesied.
We are zeros, or eggs.
They stretch our necks
with their machines
made from our machines
so we do not look so hideous.
Their eyes, a dot-hoard,
see us through every wallpaper crack.
We are never out of view.
I visit my lover in his room
kiss him my mouth full of feathers
& blood & he is at
the open window leaning.
I breathe the swans for dreams
shrouded in feathers
shit on my skin.
We honk our car horns
to inaugurate their daily fête.
They do not tolerate talk.
We are taught to bleat & honk.
We march in the fêtes
in white feathers.
If we laugh or cry or talk
they tear off our lovely feathers
& we peck the bald ones
to death.
Author’s Bio
JOHN WALL BARGER’s poems have appeared in many journals and anthologies, including The Best Canadian Poetry in English and The Montreal Prize Global Poetry Anthology. His second book, Hummingbird (Palimpsest Press, 2012), was a finalist for the Raymond Souster Award. His third is The Book of Festus (Palimpsest, 2015).