makes no distinction
between the high of my arms
and the high of the trees.
she sit down at mama’s sunday table
lookin pretty and tearing meat right off the bone,
holding her end of conversation
and her food down with her feet.
my bad-ass owl
sleeps through church and chores,
but at night she sees what none can see
and then she comes to me.
for Margaret’s orb thing at Real Toads