by Melissa McKinstry

And if an owl came
to perch on your sill,
razor beak and talon feet,
feather and vowel,
lanterns for eyes,
dropping five questions
like molten silver
into the cool night air,
you’d turn your blue gaze
toward him in answer.
You would teach him
all about being bound—
the shiver of the rabbit
tricked in a trap
with only the breeze
free in your ears.
He would teach you
about wings—
glittering fingers spread
over green trees.
You both know
the hard truth—
the intractable instinct
to survive,
the hum of the earth,
its endless shiver.
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Melissa McKinstry lives in San Diego where she mothers her disabled adult son, curates a neighborhood poet tree, and assists with translation of Yiddish literature. She earned her MFA in poetry at Pacific University. Her work has appeared in Rattle and Alaska Quarterly Review, earned honorable mention for the Steve Kowit Poetry Prize as well as contests at Crab Creek Review and The Comstock Review, and is forthcoming in december.