Nocturne
by Luke Johnson
Mother warned
the owls would tear me open, if I
told the priest
what uncle did those
humid nights in June.
How my back became
his shuck & jive
his witching wind
the slap of spit
sowed inward & how
the throat though dormant
clustered with flies
the soot of unfed prayers.
ii.
I left tithes.
Little strips of skin
to procure passing
& mimicked movements
of nocturnal prey
to move in the streets
setting fire. Once,
iii.
after uncle left his breath
like scissored spackle
& fell asleep
fondling keys I stole
his truck to pin the gas
glide down sleetlight & snow.
When an owl alighted(eyes
conical flames) then started
to flicker shriek
mirror the form of a man.
Floated before me.
God in the grip of its beak.
About the Author
Luke Johnson lives on the California coast with his wife and three kids. His poems can be found at Kenyon Review, Narrative, Florida Review, Valparaiso Review, Thrush, Tinderbox, Nimrod, Greensboro Review, and elsewhere. He was a finalist for the Pablo Neruda Award, and his chapbook, :boys, was published by Blue Horse Press in 2019.