The owl’s gaze holds an old woman in bark-shadow sleeves
pouring handfuls of light. You reach in for a fill
turning warm palms naked under a speckled sky.
You tempt the 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.
You ask how the woman landed with the owl.
She laughs until her eyes get small
and shows you a rapid slide show.
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 next to
a wet husband accelerating
proportionate 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 ask if the old woman is ghost or harbinger, fickle
nightmare or timeless spirit. Inside you fear
a future you is making an early appearance.