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Below, in the cut, I am including Section I of Louise Glück’s October which inspired this poem.
The Owl by Gia Anansi-Shakur
after Louise Glück’s “October”
Violence has changed
me something beautiful
worldly, not comfortable
living in a mouth
I’ve long made habit
of pulling off my skin
by the forearm
at night
joining the arteries
of lapping tongues and hardened wounds.
I’ve found joy
meditating on the quality
of my self served stigmatas
fracturing the columns
of holy books
An owl opens its mouth
a church bell climbs out
akimbo
She has learned
to tightrope in the dark
---
October (section I) by Louise Glück
Is it winter again, is it cold again,
didn’t Frank just slip on the ice,
didn’t he heal, weren't the spring seeds planted
didn’t the night end,
didn’t the melting ice
flood the narrow gutters
wasn’t my body
rescued, wasn’t it safe
didn’t the scar form, invisible
above the injury
terror and cold,
didn’t they just end, wasn’t the back garden
harrowed and planted—
I remember how the earth felt, red and dense,
in stiff rows, weren’t the seeds planted,
didn’t vines climb the south wall
I can’t hear your voice
for the wind’s cries, whistling over the bare ground
I no longer care
what sound it makes
when was I silenced, when did it first seem
pointless to describe that sound
what it sounds like can’t change what it is—
didn’t the night end, wasn’t the earth
safe when it was planted
didn’t we plant the seeds,
weren’t we necessary to the earth,
the vines, were they harvested?
The Owl by Gia Anansi-Shakur
after Louise Glück’s “October”
Violence has changed
me something beautiful
worldly, not comfortable
living in a mouth
I’ve long made habit
of pulling off my skin
by the forearm
at night
joining the arteries
of lapping tongues and hardened wounds.
I’ve found joy
meditating on the quality
of my self served stigmatas
fracturing the columns
of holy books
An owl opens its mouth
a church bell climbs out
akimbo
She has learned
to tightrope in the dark
---
October (section I) by Louise Glück
Is it winter again, is it cold again,
didn’t Frank just slip on the ice,
didn’t he heal, weren't the spring seeds planted
didn’t the night end,
didn’t the melting ice
flood the narrow gutters
wasn’t my body
rescued, wasn’t it safe
didn’t the scar form, invisible
above the injury
terror and cold,
didn’t they just end, wasn’t the back garden
harrowed and planted—
I remember how the earth felt, red and dense,
in stiff rows, weren’t the seeds planted,
didn’t vines climb the south wall
I can’t hear your voice
for the wind’s cries, whistling over the bare ground
I no longer care
what sound it makes
when was I silenced, when did it first seem
pointless to describe that sound
what it sounds like can’t change what it is—
didn’t the night end, wasn’t the earth
safe when it was planted
didn’t we plant the seeds,
weren’t we necessary to the earth,
the vines, were they harvested?