Denise McSheehy
The Way the Owl Turns its Whole Head Backward
I shall put on
my very dark glasses
and concentrate on corners
their satisfying
joins
the bent nail
catching the window
a beetle
running in from the garden
its back flashing
in the sun
I shall look through
the space
made by a half
open door
seeing a face
unseen
a face
as absorbed
and silent
as my own
I’ll remember
the thin smell of water
on a hot day
the instep’s
frail criss-cross
of blue
the way the owl turns its whole head
backwards
Page(s) 36-37
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