My thighs were loosening, in his account;
As if, after some struggle, I began
To overcome my terror of the swan
And please it in the role of willing mount.
My cunt was dry. The chafing made me bleed.
There was no feathered glory, no consent.
Its penis was its blood’s blunt instrument
And blood was all that issued from the deed.
The poet asks if I, the raped, put on
The knowledge with the power of the beast
While it was in me. Did I get the taste
For knowing what the creature had foreknown?
Had ever screams been strangled in his throat,
He would have had his answer as he wrote.
