The Swallows
by Clara Moser
I.
My mother’s voice was a swallow,
her mother’s voice was a swallow.
Together they went ringing over the fields
and into eaves, pestering the barn animals.
I asked my mother why her voice was a swallow’s
but she could only Jug, and Jug, and Jug,
her wings beating round my head.
I asked her mother why her voice was a swallow’s
but she could only Jug, and Jug, and Jug,
her wings beating round my head.
Why do you never speak, I asked,
as we bathed in the river and the swans
sliced over a still bank–
my mother only twittered and trilled,
twittered and trilled round my head.
II.
There was the beating of wings, the shrill sound of bird call
over a red sky and I knew he would try to make a bird of me–
my mother’s voice a swallow,
her mother’s voice a swallow.
who can only twitter and trill, Jug and Jug and Jug–
I had heard myself when speaking in the tongue my mother had before
and my voice was not a bird’s, my tongue was not a bird’s.
So when he came down in the beating of wings I faced the God in his eyes and
laughed
with my head thrown back and the swallows swooping.