by Mary Mueller
Ducking shrapnel like a journalist
embedded in Iraq, the cygnet
takes notes on his wing, chards of intelligence
gleaned in the crossfire, whispered or screamed
by soldiers in heavy metal jackets,
opaque bombast crowed by generals
crushing his feathers as he writes, quivering,
alert for explosions overhead, bullets
cracking like dogwhips around him. Can
the quill sustain scratches of truth to show
the world, carry the weight of Aries'
unleashed destruction? The war penetrates,
fuses with his slight bones, his delicate
heart protected by eggshells, his eyes dazed,
beak filled with hot sand, his down hardening
to concrete. How did he get here?
He snatches furtive glances at his wing,
pecks at the vane for clues to free him
from entrenchment. Like a mortar blast,
he sees that the words are not of his making.
He draws a bead on the scorched horizon
for a direction out, should his chance come,
to take flight.
Mary Mueller is a psychotherapist and writer living in Pawtucket, RI. Her poems have been previously published in the Rhode Island Writers' Circle Anthology.
