Signs
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Birds in the house.
An owl is shot by the front door.
An old midwife talks to herself.

The oak, its trunk branching
then braided back, a hole there
like the giant eye of a needle.
You’re the thread to go through.
If you climb up, you could sew
some leaves back on.

Your grandmother visits you
in dreams, tells you what comes true—
one bad one good. She threatens
never to speak again
because you don’t want to see
the future when it’s given you:
Please no more no more.

You’re on your knees
but it’s been a long time—
you can’t remember the words.
You flash a mirror into the clearing.

The report of a gun
and an owl falls by the door.
You hang it head down from a beam.
All winter it’ll drain and bleach,

the tiny bones dissolving. Nothing
but skin by spring, the eyes hard
dark clouds, the beak half-open,
and the claws still sharp for rain.

 

from Flux by Cynthia Hogue
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