OWL BURNING

A few inches down and the soil stops
like a bolted door. A hard frost and that's that
for anything left unharvested.

Why should an old woman such up the space,
the black roots, red juice that should be going
instead into the children?

Of course she practised magic.
When you're that hungry
you need such hooks and talons.

Held her breath at midnight, uncrossed her fingers,
and owls' feathers sprouted all over her
like mould on meat, but faster.

Saw her myself, hunting mice
in the moonlight. Silent
as the shadow of a hand thrown by a candle.

A good disguise, but I knew it was her
next day, by the white feather
caught in her hair.

She burned extremely, thick fat on fire.
Making grey screams. Giving back
to the air what she took when she shrivelled us.

She might have saved herself
with her white owl's voice
but we cut parts off her first

so she couldn't fly.
The fingers, those are the wings.
We watched her smoulder and got drunk after.

Her heart was the ember
we used to relight our stoves.
This is our culture,

no business of yours.
You have soft feet.
You don't know what it's like,
so close to bedrock.