barn owls themselves
whose wings are wide enough to shelter your stricken cells
blur in the wind
no matter how many times your vertebrae crumble
tunnel like candles sinking in their sockets
your skin-sack
dull from it all & forlorn & fumbling
a landmine rattles its own wars
it won’t strive any more
just down past the ditch
thickets of men & women
& scrub oaks ghost
how is it the barn owl passing over & shadows
of graves cast amongst else-wise stillness
how does it irrigate so
the torching of the maize field
it is so far away
you will never feel it
dry eye don’t worry
the gulch’s not yet damned
see the colors of the husks you’ll pass
the blurred highways of meteoroids as nightly they swelter
I promise darling they are already behind you
—
Aby Kaupang is the author of Radiant Tether, and there’s you still thrill hour of the world to love, NOS, disorder not otherwise specified (with Matthew Cooperman), Little “g” God Grows Tired of Me, and multiple other collections. She holds master’s degrees in creative writing and occupational therapy.
