Laura Celeste
The Swan
is a question mark.
She arches her slender neck
like an arm poised in a long, white silk glove.
Her head dips like a hand waiting to be kissed.
She’s a fake ingenue, a mean queen, a diva,
with her signature flick of thick, black eyeliner,
her glossy, orange pout
and her little black leather boots
that flash in the air like a can-can girl’s
when she flips
upside down in the water
with the sleekness of an acrobat,
only to reemerge as immaculate as a nun
primed to recite pristine Latin vows
in a wedding shroud of lush, plush plumage.
Surely, her pleated wings
were the ancient inspiration
for illustrations of angels?
Painting ripples, the swan glides through
the glimmering reflections
on the surface of her river: through sky, through clouds,
through sunlight, starlight, moonlight.
Her back is a cushioned chariot for her cygnets.
She is matriarch. Avenging muse. An illusion
of serenity. She is the rage
underneath the mask every woman wears.
As she rises out of the shallows,
her neck lengthens, resolute. No.
She hisses at the landfolk
who creep too close towards her
and her family: her fleet, her choir, her coterie.
Her wings stretch wide, and she takes flight,
with all the might of a thunderclap.
Her feathers orchestrate the air.
No, no, no. I am not
who you say I am. I am indescribably more.
Laura Celeste is a lesbian, autistic poet who completed her Creative Writing MA at the University of Birmingham with a Distinction. Her heresy has been published in over 25 journals and anthologies, including Poetry Ireland Review, Propel, Magma, bath magg, Under the Radar and After Sylvia (Nine Arches Press).