A Mind Divided

…

His beak could open a bottle,

and his eyes—when he lifts their soft lids—

go on reading something

just beyond your shoulder—

Blake, maybe,

or the Book of Revelation.

·

Never mind that he eats only

the black-smocked crickets,

and dragonflies if they happen

to be out late over the ponds, and of course

the occasional festal mouse.

Never mind that he is only a memo

from the offices of fear—

·

it’s not size but surge that tells us

when we’re in touch with something real,

and when I hear him in the orchard

fluttering

down the little aluminum

ladder of his scream—

when I see his wings open, like two black ferns,

·

a flurry of palpitations

as cold as sleet

rackets across the marshlands

of my heart,

like a wild spring day.

·

Somewhere in the universe,

in the gallery of important things,

the babyish owl, ruffled and rakish,

sits on its pedestal.

Dear, dark dapple of plush!

A message, reads the label,

from that mysterious conglomerate:

Oblivion and Co.

The hooked head stares

from its blouse of dark, feather lace.

It could be a valentine.

—Mary Oliver