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.