Barn Owl
By Ashley Lockard
the farm hand returned
each eve, the sun in navy
to place another babe
he failed to let survive —
they were hard bones to swallow.
but persist, the owl did
mashing against the floorboards
of the barn loft,
until free —
ready to feast.
it took years, though
for them to meet.
the boy now a man,
the owl, now on the brink
of death.
he greeted him with pellets,
unsure of how
to introduce a new diet —
the owl pecked and drew blood.
it was not ready to accept
health; peace; innocence.
it had learned the smell of masochism,
the comfort of horror —
yearning only for its touch.
