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39 Behind the Swan He claimed no knowledge of that night. But I could not forget the smack that bruised and stunned, his appetite, bill jabs on neck – cannot take back what he had seized. I tried to reach the god inside, batter his wings with words, ignore his barb, his beak. The beast gropes, guzzles, hovering. He’ll blame the drink, escape behind the wine, the swan. Feathers inside my mouth, I remain mute and blind. A quickening before he flies. He lives his lie. The bottle rolls. I ache, cannot stand on the floor. But my own kind will push to fight: she’ll throw a feast. She’ll thrust a knife. ...

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