Da Vinci’s Leda and the Swan
by Evan Harrison
How rightly shocked—
mother gripping
the swan’s boa-neck lovingly,
and you, four newborns, trading
the pure shell
for differentiated earth—sundry grasses,
sweet flowers, big flowers,
smaller flowers in scented,
wild air. Mother’s insouciant
grin, the light on her cheek—
damn the darkness of the egg?
No—look at mother’s hands,
the smooth curvature of the swan’s
neck. Those mountains, obscured
by milky fog,
appear as if they could be supple.
And you, fat rippling, and wanting
some attention too.
But it’s for the better
little ones—when, eventually,
you’re firm and tall, you’ll trample
the grasses and flowers,
ignoring what’s been flattened,
because all will have flattened,
and you’ll no longer marvel
at chaos. You’ll recall
the shell—dull, solitary,
and unforgiving—
and you’ll always be at home.
