Mar Ovsheid
two swans in the fountain
In the park, I watch two swans wrap their necks around one another so feverishly that they form a suffocating knot and neither can break free. Before collapsing under the surface, they lose fistfuls of feathers, frantically bashing their wings against the green water. But the fountain’s only waist deep and a passer-by jumps into the water without stopping to remove his shoes. He fishes the birds from the basin and drops them onto dry ground. The stranger’s eyes bulge and stare at me with exasperation. The swans’ eyes bulge, too, as they paddle limply at the dirt.
“Can you help?” His frenetic words collide with one another. “Instead of just standing there?” I let the words pile up, smoke tipping out of their tone, and shake my head.
“I’m letting nature take its course.”
“What?”
“The birds and the bees.”
The helpful citizen exits the murky water and kneels before the swans. I watch him try to twist the white necks this way, that way, holding a sleeping head in one hand while manipulating the vertebrae of the other. I keep my hands in my pockets and rub my right thumb on the pennies I was about to throw into the fountain.
“Can you hold this one upwards while I pull the other loose?” He doesn’t make eye contact.
“No.”
“Come on. Have a heart.”
I say nothing, he doesn’t look up, using his tilted knees to throttle one swan as he twirls the body of its mate.
“Can you at least call someone?” The terse words knock fenders, bend metal.
“Like who?”
“Forget it.”
Other visitors begin to accumulate around the scene, cautiously stalking the spectacle before offering help. Two people step in for the original stranger so that he can make a phone call to someone. Both seem skittish around the wild birds and drop them every time a phantom foot kicks or a woven neck gargles. A third person does an admirable job of holding both bodies still, until the larger of the swans evacuates its bowel all over her pants.
“Damnit.” Reflexively, she springs to her feet, throwing the birds from her lap, and the delicate triage is ruined with a loud CRACK. The two dumbstruck fill-ins continue holding their hands a little too steady, and whatever animation was left in the swans dissolves into the earth, leaving only dead weight. Gingerly, they untangle the necks, limp and bruised from the constriction.
The original hero returns, phone still to his ear, and I watch his tense face fall.
“Never mind. Too late.”
The crowd separates the tragic lovers and lays them side-by-side in a nearby garden. Someone has their toddler say a few unintelligible, allegedly nice, words. Then, each bystander removes a dirty feather from the filthy fountain and disappears. The first responder, his eyes still half-on-fire despite the tears, gives me a final disdainful look before shaking his head and departing.
Once everyone’s gone and the sun’s nearly done with its beaming, I hover over the carcasses. Gently as I can, though rougher than I’d like, I pick up the larger of the stiff swans and place it atop the other. With a little more force, I twine their necks together, cover them with dirt and flowers, and leave with my pocketful of pennies.
Mar Ovsheid is a spoilsport who tragically dropped—and lost—her sea monkeys in the carpet as a kid. Her work has appeared in Cream Scene Carnival, Wild Roof Journal, Scavengers, Mulberry Literary, and oranges journal, among others. Mar works as a housekeeper and is visible at @mar_ovsheid on Instagram.