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….
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