egg

Waiting at the Bronze Statue

Posted by & filed under eggs past.

Jim Davis

Posture of a swan’s apotheosis. Monarch
on the dock opens like a fan. Weeping
swells, she tucks into her sweater, flicks
ash & says darling does it bother you?
Buttermilk, he says, so she sets it down
on the bronze bill of the swan at the hand
of Hans Christian Anderson & he goes on
with sheet cake recipes. Fog tethered to poles
along the harbor. Drum ships drop anchor.
Remember when he says & she says yes
of course. I never meant to feel like this,
rattle of lambs bleating in a pen, she says
if you were to swim, the horizon would keep
retreating, you’d drown before you found it.