Lynda Ann Healy and the Swan
by Briana Gonzalez
A metallic blow. The wings stealthy and still
above the wounded woman, her thighs caressed
by shadow hands, her dress caught in his teeth,
he holds her helpless, fist to face and hip to hip.
How can the present push away the truth of the past?
How can her name slip into forgetting as he stowed her
under his wing and inside his nest? How could she have
felt anything but feathered frantic fear beneath his ferocity?
After,
the damp Washington soil engulfed her for
a whole year beside the mud grave-markers
of violated ghosts. One of many,
her name haunted newspaper clippings;
does she cry out now in her resting place,
knowing the world will remember his white,
airborne face and not hers?
He floats in the middle of glory’s lake.
above the wounded woman, her thighs caressed
by shadow hands, her dress caught in his teeth,
he holds her helpless, fist to face and hip to hip.
How can the present push away the truth of the past?
How can her name slip into forgetting as he stowed her
under his wing and inside his nest? How could she have
felt anything but feathered frantic fear beneath his ferocity?
After,
the damp Washington soil engulfed her for
a whole year beside the mud grave-markers
of violated ghosts. One of many,
her name haunted newspaper clippings;
does she cry out now in her resting place,
knowing the world will remember his white,
airborne face and not hers?
He floats in the middle of glory’s lake.
Briana Gonzalez (she/they) is a Chicane, queer poet, and an upcoming MFA candidate at the University of Colorado Boulder. They have poems published in Ample Remains, Not Deer Magazine, Dead Fern Press, and Southchild Lit. Outside of writing, she enjoys bat-watching, logging movies on Letterboxd, and making tea. Find Briana at bgwriting.org.