Soundbox

The owl takes the cello down its throat

so the strings and wood are left,

song digested in its cells. The energy released

fuels its eyes, its perfect horns

like the slice of moon, bow drawn by arms

no one can see. The arrow

is also concealed, but the angle

of the bow shows the weapon points

at the earth, the goddess in her aim.

Body, neck, where fingers used to be, the owl

asks the same questions for centuries

or rather people hear it that way,

what is in their own mind, who will

come for me, who sees, who knows.