The Maynard
Spring 2018

0:00

 

 

Swans at the Golf Club

We sneak into the golf course after sunset
to see the swans and how they’re loved

in the winter: someone made a wire house
for them, laid straw, set up a space heater,

glowing orange like the crevices of caves
in fairy tales. The straw is gold

but the birds themselves more grey
than silver under the ordinary secret light

of evening. The green touched with frost.
The pond beside the green quiet with ripples.

The swans cannot leave here.
Pinioned wings. I guess they aren’t allowed

to reproduce either. I watch them and wonder
how they grieve. I know I’m tender

and I have more freedom than I understand
but I’m not this beautiful.

The fairway’s closed for the season
but the club is open. My mother and I waltz in

like we’re supposed to be here,
take the stairs down to a hallway of trophies

to use the members’ only toilets.
Being indoors after so much time in the purple dark

makes my limbs feel needly with sudden heat.
When I am alone in the bathroom stall

I check my underwear for blood.
New stains. Bleeding in early pregnancy

can be very common, I’ve read, so I’ve been trying
not to worry. I haven’t told my mother yet.

I’m waiting to confirm the pregnancy
with my doctor in a few days;

as it happens I’ll get the bloodwork done
in the ER. Someone in a white coat

at 3 a.m. will take me into an examination room
and gently tell me they’re going to see if the “baby”

is okay, and the slip-up of that name for what
I know is only a bundle of cells inside me

will leave me floating as if on a tame pond
where I’m not allowed to be wild.