The Owls

for my Mother After the failed attempt to kill herself, She gaveled up a parliament of owls, Repurposing every cabinet and shelf To house her blinkless treasury of fowls. What comfort came from a gross of hooded eyes Strewn through her home, I could not even guess. Yet urgently she unboxed every prize And for it found some suitable recess. As executor, I audited the owls. Seventy-two, my final reckoning. There was one I liked. He'd pivot in his cowl Like a startled monk, when shook. His shuttering eyes, like cameras, seemed to document the night. Her night, I thought: her burden, and her flight.