Soundbox
By Angie Macri
The owl takes the cello down its throat
so the strings and wood are left,
song digested in its cells. The energy released
fuels its eyes, its perfect horns
like the slice of moon, bow drawn by arms
no one can see. The arrow
is also concealed, but the angle
of the bow shows the weapon points
at the earth, the goddess in her aim.
Body, neck, where fingers used to be, the owl
asks the same questions for centuries
or rather people hear it that way,
what is in their own mind, who will
come for me, who sees, who knows.
