It Is Not A Metaphor
It is a small creature with wet, blue fur
and an owl’s head. She lies crouched
at your feet. A trail of bluish wetness
marks where she’s been but now she is here
and, you’ll be pleased to know, presents
no danger at all. This you can tell
by looking down, see, she’s licking
the top of your shoe. Smile,
there is no reason to be concerned
as she opens up her mouth, taking in first
your left foot, then your right. Amazing,
that such a small animal could swallow
so much and not increase even one inch.
This is what you are thinking as she
chews her way up your torso, even
by the time you finish that thought
you have become a neck and head
reaching out from her mouth. Below
this mouth lie her wide owl eyes
yellow irises shot with black: sharp,
dangerous.
by Dave Rowley
from Autumn Sky Poetry Number 2, June 2006
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