When I was younger my younger brother found a duck nest and picked out one egg. Then the mother bit him in the kneecaps and the rectum but her beak got stuck. He squeezed her out like he was shitting and some shit came out. Then he stomped on the nest and ran home with egg guts on his shoelaces.
He didn’t know what to do with the egg when he got home so he inserted it into my sleeping penis, and worked it down into my scrotum. When I woke up he told me.
Why would you do that? I asked him.
Eggs have to stay warm, he answered. My brother has autism.
I was so careful then. I had to protect my scrotum. I had to cover my scrotum whenever my brother walked by. I felt too guilty to masturbate.
Then I heard a crack one night and thought the egg had cracked. I imagined my balls rolling in egg yolk. But then I heard cheep cheep and a beak poked my scrotum. My brother climbed up the bunk ladder and said, Is it seven-thirty?
Over the next month the duckling got bigger and bigger. I couldn’t wear boxers because my balls would fall out, just my dad’s old blue gitch and my black joggers. At school I got teased but I also got more popular with gays.
The duckling grew huge fast. Its wingspan was huge. When I took a shit it bobbed in my balls on the water. It didn’t quack, it made these wacky sounds.
My mom looked online and said, Evan?
Yeah, I said.
It’s not a duck.
What is it? I asked.
A swan, she said proudly.
So I’m proud it’s a swan and not just a dumb duck. I’m proud of my swan even though it ate my nuts. I’ll never be a father, but I’ll be its father forever. It’s going to be a beautiful animal.
Life is kind of shitty, but it can be beautiful, too.
First published in Heavy Feather Review
