Today's poem is by Jen Currin
In Search of the Owl's Mirror
So it happens I am mortal: my heart,
a cluster of fruit flies, whirrs
in the heat of my chest.
I bequeath my chair and birdcage
to a girl who plays
the violin. I leave one match
in a book of matches on my desk.
Near a river, I encounter night.
Sometimes the milk we drink
turns black in our mouths.
The baby I picked up yesterday
is now a vial of dirt
from my hometown.
Sometimes we're forced to don clothes
made of chance.
I awake in a field, wearing
a stranger's shoes.
Is the night as forgetful as I am?
The moon has left its half-eaten dish in the sky,
the wind scatters the past
like bread crumbs.
Copyright © 2007 Jen Currin All rights reserved
from The Sleep of Four Cities
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission
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