by Andrea Krause

All in the Eyes

The word forlorn reminds me
of an owl. Maybe it’s the two o’s—

just try to say it without rounding your lips
into a perfect circle, the shape

your mouth makes trying to teach a baby
to give a kiss—or is it the f and l, vertical,

upright, poised, the f drawn out,
perfect branch for a perch?

The days are a treadmill, and I surf
the belt with no apparent ends, circular

surges dispensing anxiety and depression,
the North and South pole

of feelings; no direction a reprieve.
So out I trudge, for some air, gasping

with all the rest. Perched at his behest,
on a low branch, wingspan concealed.

He is seen when he wants to be seen.
Clad in soft mid-century variegated suit,

a mottled moth could not blend
with more deceit. Looming

eyes, as yellow as lemons
are sour, sieving perforated

landscape for a meal. Catching
only ordinary brown eyes spying

along the trail. His head swivels
smooth lazy susan, cotton candy

horns so fluffy I’d dare a bite.
I’ve done nothing to deserve this

beauty, still it has found me.
I say forlorn, letting it

linger, my compass prodding me
onward. Soft

rhythmic coos escape my lips.

***

Kindred Echo

Black neck
kinked hose
rose up from
the dark
placid water
gliding briskly
no sail
necessary
the loon
& I
gracefully
co-existing
two witnesses
in admirable
serenity
with a startle
it dove
below
flawed as the rest
of us beasts
such intensity
I knew
we were kin

Photo by Amol Mande via Pexels