Owls by Christine Potter


I was talking to the owls again tonight.
It was like scrolling on social media—
hoo-HOO, hoo-HOO—and they liked it.

It was warmer today. The air felt more
like a friend.The creek sounded serious
and steady. I’d been inside until dusk.

I spoke with the owls, which my father
said flew off with unruly children: one
specific owl, actually: The Owl. We both

knew that wasn’t true. His mother (tiny,
superstitious, Irish) used it to scare him.
Except he knew I’d be too smart to fool.

I was. I’m still angry at my father, but
not about that. Sometimes winter lets up
just a little and I miss him: hoo-HOO,

hoo-HOO. I talk to the owls. They answer
me back, outside with night just pulling
itself together, a few stars poking through.

by Christine Potter

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Editor’s Note: This poem leads the reader onto a meandering path, and it isn’t until the very end that one realizes that the heart of it is right in the center, but it’s a bit too painful to touch. One can only arrive at grief and joy and anger and memory indirectly.


One response to “Owls by Christine Potter”

  1. Janice D. Soderling Avatar

    To start my day with this this fine poet is an unexpected pleasure. Christine Potter is a dazzling writer, and thx ASPD for the bonus poems.

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