Swan Song

If you want to hear it, you should expect death
it will start at the tips
like all else, a soft moaning in preparation
to the ultimatum of ends,
rising inside you like bile, like burnt out sugar
this is the song that will miss when it comes to a close
an end like no other
this is the first sign

forget about the pulsing sensation beneath the skin
there's more than just blood in this body, yours
you lay a space inside for it all
for the oxygen, the damage,
the notes in the forms they come
by midnight, forced
by water, exalted
this is the swan's song

it is Odette's cry on the surface each night
after leaving a feather on your mattress
a feather dunked in candle-wax, to light
to delight, to protect you from the imps
and the brazen fire arches landing
when you are not looking

there will soon be a whole, tightly
strung up, on the tips of the fingers
where death starts first
like frost spreading over the lake
you'd forgotten how pain
stringing, strumming
will transfer into music
swan song
just before the sun
breaks on the waters.