The Never
       

They lie in separate rooms while the moon
spills its light across limbs of trees.
The fake owl poses in the yard next door—
those yellow eyes she saw and thought
it was a Great Horned Owl. The never
comes in spurts, like wings across the kitchen
skylight cutting her off from him
during the day. Never takes the form of sleep
at night. It’s not that never belongs
to no one else. Practically anyone
could be happy under the sentence of moon
on gravel, moon on frost, moonlight
on fake owl perched in a willow.
Perhaps the moon is birch wood, she thinks,
and it was part of the never before this never.
Maybe the wings are obsidian and covered
the skylight when a piece of the Kuiper Belt
exploded above their house. Inside she feels
a bit like never. Likes the sound of mingling
with folks that might live there. Likes the fake owl,
who never asks who.

Copyright © 2010 Judith Skillman All rights reserved
from The Never
Dream Horse Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission