American Autumn

This time of year, when the good weather
is winding down, swans appear on ponds and lakes
everywhere, their glorious, Art Nouveau necks
slipping through the mirrors
into the brown-green muck below.

They don’t want you to remember
that they rose to this
from their birth as sin-ugly ashy cygnets,
that they rode on their parents’ handsome backs
until they were ready to take their places,

so if you get too close
they will attack, breaking your limbs
with angelic weapons, fervently trying
to cut you open with their cruddy,
razored mouths, working every ounce of their weight

to keep you from thinking of the way
their eyes are black, all black,
with no light shining through from inside;
to keep you from thinking of anything except
the arc of their feeding, their classical poise.