DREW BLANCHARD

For the Record

I don’t remember the color
my wife’s hair turns in summer.
She is no longer my wife:
winter wheat. The sound of a record
when the music ends,
when the needle glides and skips
is the soundtrack to everything
in my brother’s backyard. Swans wandering
outside my grandfather’s
hospital window, the willows
bending toward water,
away from sky, signified,
for him, nothing but swans
crapping on grass, and weepy trees.
Their wings unclipped, the swan’s
migration never changed:
spring then autumn then
spring then autumn. I always dance
at dances. I always never stop.