Chicagoetry: A Swan In A Swamp

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

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