Leda (poetry)

I know those feathers — their sweep
and the swan-smell intimacy of closeness
brooded in desire.

Those wings come often in dark dreams
beating slow — his intention hissed
as that broad blunt beak probes
flesh pockets for the bread of promise.

I marvel at his breast so flawless —
paler and softer even than my own nakedness —
submitting to the force of his single-minded passion.
I can’t deny him his success
for I lie in some strange rapture
entranced by such a sense of power — in awe
of how he flaps above me
pinions spread and the rushing of air
all around — like the heavens themselves
are moved in witnessing
a rare unforeseen configuration.

Is this the stuff that myths are made of ? —
my ecstacy — his natural hunger —
how he feeds on sensations of our different flesh —
yet I detect a tenderness beneath the lust —
his slender neck has rubbed against my thigh
eyes closed in more than mock caress.

He’s left a knowledge in me — something of himself
love-nurtured like an egg of understanding —
he has left me with a gift —
an immortality that holds the key —
a pure white feather grows somewhere
the property of flight —
its consummate promise.