Swan concerns could not be organizedin the swamp of the Black Swan’s instincts.
The bugling call of her wedge in flight didn’t compel her.
Soft crooning did not tickle her ‘neath her quivering feathers.
Only the whistling warnings of wary Blacks startled her to flee.
She could not find herself among them,
so alike they are to one another.
Where was the uniqueness
that made her feel so strongly different?
Her neck is sunk for shame
into the cavity of her shoulders.
she cannot move her head
without cranking up an absent will.
Is her cygnet-self so strong?
Something once small, gray-feathered and sweet
felt imposed upon as she cowered
‘neath a black and threatening cloud of indistinguishable wings.
She panicked in the strange familiarity.
Her unquenchable spirit is roused by her dilemma.
It yawns and stretches,
smoothing out the creases of her serpentine neck.
She takes pleasure in the flock of mirrors above and around her.
She rises, broad-winged, out of the trap of her individuality
into the singularity of her communal flight.
Listen to Charlanne read this poem. Click here.
