Itâ€™s True About Owls, Monday Morning
I read a poem by a woman who
writes that death enters her room, tells her
she will only write about him.
As if any collection of words fails to
bear him along; any sky, any
yawning hour of night, any river,
ocean or even this simple stream of
water twisting down the bathroom
drain, braided with incandescent light;
light that reveals every line,
every mark of fatigue, every living
pore. Death is there like a lover, like
a god, like the pungent odor
at low tide, the tartness left on
the tongue after blueberries,
after every sweetness.
Itâ€™s True About Owls
The silent flight of their hollow boned, soft-
feathered bodies. This one
has switched perches to observe me
as I exit the woods, the movement
sudden and silent like the change from love
and back again, the flight itself
You were here, now there
and it’s unfathomable
I never heard a thing.
Carolyn Scarbrough has published in Gulf Coast, Poet Lore, Sundog, Tar River Poetry, Conduit, Connecticut River Review, High Desert Journal, Minnesota Review, and The Southeast Review. She has an MFA from the Bennington College Writing Seminars, works as a pediatric ICU nurse, and is the mom to five kids, two dogs and the cat. Basically, she says, she writes despite all the reasons to not write, much like a willful child!