Untitled 8
Appearing from nowhere, a red stain in my colourless
vision, I found them cold in the whiteness of the first
snowfall. They lay there in the misty haze, stunned to silence,
smothered in their white blanket; that splendid state
beyond shivering. All the swans are dead, their bodies
melt, reclaimed by the snow. I watch myself in their vacant eyes,
staring out at me, as if I’m some kind of god- the sun’s
sparkle has faded; black mirrors, an onyx iris. With wings
contorted, they lay limp, their broken necks hanging like empty white bags,
their once-upon-a-time white feathers twitching in the wind, the veins
on their sagging skins unwrapped, all speckled with flashes
of ruby, brighter than fire, and just as untameable. This
scalded mess looks at me; the ends molt through, peeping like scared
children, and crawl along my frozen skin; it’s almost
pleading, the red ocean growing and overflowing, staining
the pinking dirt. They are all equal here, entwined in strands that slither
like embracing fingers, numb to the bone from the biting frost; iced
to perfection, inseparable chunks. From high above in the black sky, he saw
it all, creaming with knowledge- watching through his terrible spyhole,
that ghostly hue that bones this new aurora’s gleam with sallow blemishes.
This scene infects me; I circle the remains in awe and continue; this sight’s
colouring me green: it is over; they are finished, laying in the soiled snow.
Copyright © Daniel Dixon | Year Posted 2013
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