Talking to Owls
by and published in Edition Nine of Pomegranate
Mid-to-late teens, evening; fists cupped, almost,
and your mouth that way I haven’t figured
out yet. Conversation, you’d said, after,
and the both of you not understanding
anything, not saying anything, both
speaking and replying anyway and
him aware you must be something but not
knowing what the questions should be, nor the
answers – but a conversation all the
same until you stopped, left, went downstairs. I
had a conversation with an owl, you
said, to polite puzzlement. I said I
could believe it. And after, again: last
year, a clearing, Africa (a big place,
lots of places, and I’ve never been there)
and you saying to a woman with a
tape-recording of the birdsong I can
do that, listen, doing it, and hearing
replies hidden in the canopy, so
close, so near, not close enough to touch.
Anthony Adler
Anthony Adler was born, once.