An Interest in Things with Wings
Was there a chance you didn’t notice
the owl shit on the sidewalk, the white splats,
the log shaped extrusions or hear
it laughing as it preened in the tree?
You couldn’t see its wings, though
you knew how wide the cape of them,
how they closed like an clasp.
Last night you reviewed
your place in the universe,
tried to pray for the thing
you wanted most, but your head
spun and rumbled, your arms
crossed like folded wings,
while your hands refused to form temples.
Today men are jacking the foundation,
of your house, faces hidden in hoods,
arms hefting pipes and mechanical piers
which would fix the problem
like a lifting of wings. And around you,
walls creak and adjust in places
you can only feel, the foundation
protecting itself from the inside out.
Karla Huston is the author of A Theory of Lipstick (Main Street Rag: 2013) as well as 8 chapbooks of poetry including Grief Bone, forthcoming from Five-Oaks Press. Her poems, reviews and interviews have been published widely, including the 2012 Pushcart Best of the Small Presses anthology. She teaches poetry at The Mill: A Place for Writers in Appleton, Wisconsin.