You had lead me, head first through the loft,
Where we spoke only in a low whisper that ran crisp
Underneath the sound and dust. In this quiet, your lisp
Threaded your instructions with a childish giddiness, soft
And raw as a hangnail. Laughter edged at both our lips.
Pulling me into silence, you had gestured to the right
Where, as my gaze scattered, I had become aware of a new sound-
Minuscule prayer calls, a nest of owls that she had found.
In the half dark only the inside of beaks omitted any kind of light,
Opening so wide that they imitated orchids, perfectly round.
“This is the first regurgitation,” was the explanation that you gave.
It was only then that I had noticed a new shape, which
Unlike the scrawny scissor beaks, didn’t jerk about or twitch.
My jaw dropped when the owl’s neck rolled in one smooth wave,
Forcing up a river of nutrients, a pale green-gold and rich.
In between the sandpaper darkness, the noises began to soften:
The chicks must have been satisfied, the mother stomach wrung
Right out. Then, there about, my arms found yours and they had clung
onto eachother like Velcro. Here, we created a nest of limbs and cotton
Where I emptied myself onto you, my heart spilling off my tongue.
