In Grimm’s tale “The Six Swans” a sister keeps a six-year silence and weaves six thistle shirts to break the spell that has changed her brothers into swans. She weaves all but the left sleeve of the final shirt, and when the brothers are changed back into men, the youngest lacks only his left arm and has in its place a swan’s wing.
In Spanish our name means swan.
A great past—castles maybe
or a Sahara city,
but more likely
a name that stuck
to a barefoot boy
herding the dusty flock
down the bright road.
We’ll never know.
Great-grandparents might
but family likes to keep to silence—
perhaps with reason
though we don’t need far back to go.
On our father’s side we have a cousin,
second, but cousin nonetheless,
who shot someone, his wife I think.
And on the other hand, there’s
mother’s brother who shot himself.
Then there’s us—
seven ways to make the name or break it.
Our father has it planned:
oldest, you’re doctor,
second, administration,
me, he shrugs, you should’ve been reporting weather,
next, musician,
athlete,
genius,
and youngest—well,
you’ll take the business over.
You six a team
keeping to the master plan,
the lovely motion of tradition.
Appearances are everything.
We live for each other’s expectations.
Brothers, it is so hard to keep up with you.
I’ve got the bad blood in me I think,
the mad uncle, the bit of the bullet.
Ask me anything.
Six thistle shirts. Keep a vow of silence.
I’ll do it. But I’m earthbound
always in my admiration.
My six brothers, graceful, strong.
Except for you, little one-winged,
finding it as difficult as me
to keep the good name clean.