Swans
There were so many swans in Germany where I just spent 10 days. As animal, as a namesake. I learned that hunting, consuming and insulting (yes, insulting) the Alster breed of them is strictly forbidden there.
I would never insult a swan.
The word "swan" is in it, said an artist to me when trying to recall the name of Neuschwanstein Castle. I think it’s famously supposed to be a reference for the Disney logo. A dream is a wish your heart makes.
I can't imagine swans tasting very good, after seeing so many of them in the rivers of Germany. Their tepid demeanor, too graceful corpulence, odd presence amidst tree stacks, nutritious breads, people content with honor systems. Beautiful long necks in white feather screaming at me to stop staring. Your goddamn throat.
With apologies to vegetarians, allow me to inform you: a beast that wishes to be eaten would speak. It would oink and bray and moo. I can hear from sounds made by pigs and cows and goats exactly how we are meant to eat them, what they taste like. Swans, according to legend, make no noise until they are on death’s door. We call their beautiful siren, a swan song. The last thing they say is the only thing they say. It is supposed to be quite beautiful. I would not know. I have not heard it before.
Scientists try to tell us that the myth of the swan song is based on faulty observation. Swans sing when they are courting, actually. It is a mating call. The same as with any animal. The swan, however, is so discreet in its mating ritual it rarely sings it in public. It does not want the world to be privy to its lusting. Not saying anything is saying something, too, right?
Without hearing a thing, I cannot imagine the taste of a swan. But imagine: I can taste your entire body from the sound of your voice, and would suffice to listen without ever opening my mouth. I keep listening.
