By J.J. Tindall
A Swan in a Swamp
So: there’s an angel
in my guts,
a swan in my swamp.
White swamp, snow bog,
like rain after a blizzard.
The egrets and heron belong
but the swan
seems wrong, a slim wizard
in a fat fog,
a cherub
‘midst the bats and frogs.
Cottonmouth bastards,
croc motherfuckers
then this black-billed
trumpeter swan
taking no guff.
I had myself black-balled
but the angel
called my bluff.
Warrior angel,
swan with a sword.
WTF?
Knee-boots, cap of lures,
cherry-red shotgun.
God: I thought it was a brittle flamingo
but mercy it’s a blood-flecked swan.
Meaty motherfucker.
Here is my angel, my
cold salvation.
Thought I was a goner,
a scorp-scarred loner
but the swan don’t scare.
It sits, it swims, it stares.
Ain’t goin’ nowhere.
Christ: like a loyal friend!
A miracle, a good-witch fiend.
The slush, the sluice,
the shit-bag Canadian goose
passing through.
Thought I was a goner
but then came the angel
with a black trumpet,
honking out some
cherry-red blues.
The herons
start to dance.
Jazz angel
don’t take no
for an answer.
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J.J. Tindall is the Beachwood’s poet-in-residence. He welcomes your comments. Chicagoetry is an exclusive Beachwood collection-in-progress.
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More Tindall:
* Chicagoetry: The Book
* Ready To Rock: The Music
* Kindled Tindall: The Novel
Posted on January 23, 2012