Holding

I have held dead things in my hands.
None was human. Summer, swimming with
my children; their sleek, living bodies
are all over me. We duck each other, bob
to the surface, breathing. Winter, ice
spreads on the lake, its veins go deep, its surface
sets like a face in grief. It fills with snow.
The children, bundled up, come running with
a dead horned owl they've found in the woods,
rare to the touch, rigid, clear,
its eyes squeezed shut. I take it from them by the legs,
its feet with their talons doubled like
an old man's fists. I hold it upside-
down like poultry, watch the bundle of feathers fall
open — brown, tan, russet,
umber, burnt sienna, fluff, the white at the throat.
The wings are stiff, so with my other hand I stretch
one out, startled by its length,
its soft flight feathers wet, disheveled,
the barbs askew. The children lose interest.
What does it mean, this innocence, this leverage?
Will death ever instruct me? The human, holding forth!
Cupboards, windows, shelves, unnecessary
dreamwork. I toss the carcass in the woods.
If it were human, I would hold
that mystery, a body to bury.


Published in Blue Unicorn, June 1994