I wanted to know where the napkin swans came from.
Perched on the tables, waiting to be unfurled. So I stayed
after closing, and from under the folds of red cloth, I saw

the mother swan, a deity worshipped by the touch
of the kitchen boy. Her long white neck stretched
in the candlelight. Her wings spread.

He sang to her in tribal moans, and she stayed silent, her mouth
a black egg, until he untangled himself from her white flesh
and sat folding napkins, watching her sleep.

Her long white body pulsed with breath,
as she unfurled.

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