Swan Lake and all,
But the war babies went wild.
Their chubby little bodies
belied their supposed innocence.
Look at their faces,
creepy and middle-aged.
Frustrated baby-men with weapons.
The black chorus looks on, marbled and unmoved
at the premature death. She had
such great bone structure, and I bet
she spoke both Russian and French.
Cupid’s army, black swan queen,
a randy hunter in the wood.
Doomed from the first note,
the first flight, the first arrow
dipped in the shadows by little men
trapped in infant skin. Doomed
by all who cannot abide the power
of one woman’s dance,
a swan alive in the world’s wood.