The Eagle and the Swan

Derek Pollard

Again and always a January of snow

The porcelain of the sink morning cold

The tiles of the bathroom floor morning cold

Somewhere Canada geese are blaring their mid–

Winter song a vermouth song sweet around

The edges with an eggshell hole in the center

Our love is a hiccough

Something loud and without apology

The body gagging itself with splashes

Rivering toward the waiting other

Who is only ourselves ever disguised

We arrive at The Chateau at Silver Lake

Morning wine dashed off between fucks

And the fabulous enjoyment of our repeated

Exhaustion what is most immediate

Around us lit up by the wobbly light

Of a Duraflame log we replace

Every three hours to match our laughter

And the brief knowing of our embrace

If you would allow me such pause

I would say that this televisual life

Is perfect the two of us and the well–

Traveled carry–ons we bring to one another

And match against those of Mario Batali

And his darling entourage on Spain

On the Road Again which our hands resting

Against one another we blame bemusedly

For our champagney silences

Those two too–short days along the Jersey Shore

We and all the rest having forgotten ourselves

In the merry midst of this newest of new years

For another Christmas another December

Darkness pierced by a light returned only through

The baubles of our hysterical and sobbing joy