To find the owl I must follow the crow
who says my ears and eyes better behave;
it’s hard for me to learn what the crow knows
unable to refuse the blueish glow
nor the shiny trinkets my wingtips save.
To find an owl I must follow the crow
who says, into an owl I cannot grow
and takes me to the bend of my eye’s grave;
it’s hard for me to learn what the crow knows.
The voice of a crow isn’t caw but snow,
an arc of ink across a feathered wave.
To find an owl I must follow the crow
pick of pine needles where I was below
pinion of gloss and ash I glide engrave.
It’s hard for me to learn what the crow knows.
Lost call of the owl is clouded and slow
wing of midnight and cold blessing me brave.
I keep walk until sun wake and let go;
it’s hard for me to learn what the crow knows.
Behind the Back of the Robin
Even in the city
the cicadas are heavy
with song and I am
too young to call
a bird anything but red.
What do I
name this, when
the sun enters
my head. I’m afraid
the flowers are blooming again.
When my grandmother feeds
my father I know
to sit still. A girl
at my school eats
ants. She snaps
off their heads and says
they taste like candy
and it doesn’t scare me
like my grandmother does.
I can’t look at her
or the doll she sewed
me, without arms.
When she leaves the kitchen
my father lets me eat.
The sting of menudo sharp,
listening for the sound of her
to return, like a curse.
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