Leveler Poetry Journal
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Trumpeter swans from Russia south for winter: En Bōqeq.

What I see is food for what I see.

Mind meandering far from body,

over the dead and heavy sea

whose salt once healed an ugly summer cut.

Before the gush, the skin was insular—all the hexes

sealed. Trumpeters swans, their hearty honks.

Beyond them monumental mountains—Mo’av in the mist.

The gist of it—whatever rises

outside gets reflected

back. The terrace lit with candle-lanterns, oleander, jazz.

Lo, behold—

the blue-note horns are us.

What I feel is food for what I feel.

I wish I could have swept you up, before the fall,

and ferried you away. The way the very air has weight,

the way you were a seraph once (when I was being razed)—

light as light, insubstantial as grace.

Elana Wolff