Snowy Owl, A Bird That’s Not an Oriel

I feel like such a fool
having described the snowy
owl to you. Laying bare
insecurities with each guess
on the black spots
of tail feathers and the why’s
of blank aggressive stares.

I didn’t know it would feel
like rape when I touched
her back in the early 90s.
Didn’t expect the phone call
that drove me past Denver
to the dorm room and a
horrid night reaching out
to someone who hated
everything about herself.

I feel like such a fool
having described the snowy
owl to you. It feels useless now,
the thought of tracing paper
along the white breast
or pointing and laughing
about the contrast of the
yellow see-through eyes.

I wish I could kill her
and you and the kids
and the world and myself
sometimes. It passes,
I suppose, as all things
pass I suppose. I’ve never
seen one, you know. Blaze
white against snow, apparent
and subtly camouflaged.

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