Lizzy Burnam 🐞

The owl sat—a silhouette
in black upon the branch
nearly hidden by the night 
but for a silver beacon. 

If she were God, I might have said 
a word of flight or dance. 
She did not speak, and yet I heard
a sound inside my chest. 

It didn’t seem like mourning 
nor like a warning cry, 
but owl’s silent song conveyed 
that all I love will die.   

No sorrow in her glowing eyes, 
no pity in her words.
The moon our only witness, 
the stars so far away. 

I realized then her camouflage 
is not unlike her cage.
A bird who preys is also prey
and prayer is how she flies. 

I’ve never seen an angel. 
The devil I know well. 
But neither live so truthfully 
as winged predators. 

If heaven’s made of ether, 
and from there Lilith fell, 
then on its light this creature glides
—the shadow cast is hell.