I go into a classroom. Big, tiered, like a university lecture hall. Open space front for us cripples, on the first tier. In this dream I'm in a wheelchair, at least at first. A girl I knew in High School, Sharla Paul, is there with a broken leg.
The guest lecture is being given by the Queen. She has killed a swan. It is hanging from a hook, by a chain, from the ceiling. Which of us can mount us properly? (It is a class on taxidermy.) She swings the swan to me on its chain. It is very soft. I see its collapsed eyes. I shove it back at her.
Oh no, I think in the dream, I've thrown a swan at the head of state.
I must mount the swan. The queen brings it into my dark chemical room, with its heavy black counters that you can scrape with a fingernail. The swan is not quite dead. It is still dying. Its eyes are open. I stroke it gently. It is purring, like a dying cat. The queen shows me how to seal its eyes with wax.
