Elizabeth Smither: The man in the hammock and The swan neck

The swan neck

The doctor placed his fingertips together to make

a steeple near his stethoscope and blotter.

“Your daughter has a swan neck,” he declared.

My father had discovered as I stretched

my soon-to-be-named neck

an apparent lump rising against the flesh.

Probably nothing, he thought, but he eyed it

for several mornings while I ate my porridge.

Better have it seen to, for safety’s sake.

I made it worse by stretching up my neck

like a real swan. It was a school morning

and I hadn’t done my homework.

“Do you mind if I touch it?” my father said.

It seemed there was a lump. But the doctor

said it was a sign of beauty.

In ballet class I pressed my shoulders down

and my neck was freed to rise.

Really it was to ape stillness

while the swan feet moved beneath.

The head of a ballerina must be poised.

I thought of this while the very clean fingers

of the doctor probed and the lump retreated.

“Swan neck,” my father glowed….