Within the owl’s gaze, an old woman in bark-shadow sleeves
is pouring out handfuls of light. You reach in for a fill
turning warm palms naked under the cloudless sky.
You tempt a stream into the yellow of your eyes,
the freckles of your skin and the mole on your back.
You fount into your bent toe bones and calloused thumbs.
Un-roughed, you wonder how the woman landed with the owl.
She laughs until her eyes get small and shows you
a rapid slide show of your earlier appearances.
The Jenkins’ garage first kiss
so swift it seemed accidental.
Semi-religious emergence as a
red-faced butterfly semi-
sacred transformation onto
the semiotic windshield
of your ’64 Pontiac Tempest
screaming down I-35 with a wet
husband accelerating in proportion
to six-packs consumed
your twenty-something self, hovering
above the wreckage in a favorite
pinstriped skirt, falling
flat-tired on hot asphalt
west of your final destination–
a single bumbling deer fly
entering through the front door
exiting through the back.
You wonder if she is ghost or harbinger, fickle nightmare
or timeless spirit. Something inside of you knows
she is a future you making an early appearance.