Girl into Owl and Back Again

Shimmering feathers jut from red cracked
skin.

I know they shimmer because of
last time, because I pushed
through the ache and
pulled them forward, past the agony and
saw tawny feathers glistening
wet and red like a newborn.
This time, I do not
need to tug them to know.

Bones snap and splinter
in the winter air,
echoing in the absence of almost
all other sound
save the ringing in my ears
as another crunch bleeds out.

Sharp beak breaks through and
my nose peels off.
As the marrow exits my bones,
miles away there is a slender mouse
huddling in the tall grass
small and unaware but
frightened all the same.

The ache hasn't left.
The blood hasn't dried.
Excess flesh lies on cold hard pavement.
The wings hang sore.

But the mouse is scurrying off
so I lift these newfound limbs
push them down
lift again and push until
I soar.

The worst part is over by the time I'm off
the ground— less pain less sensation
altogether save the wind
harsh against the bare skin left on my face
but gentle under the wings and against my
torn clothing.

Not much happens until the ground.
The aerodynamic aspects of owls
are lost when you pin their wings and beak
onto human skin.

There are few things gained in the tumble:
one, blood, two, pain, three, dirt—
so, so much scarlet and rust, brown
against red and
there's something solid through my thigh
and by the time I pull it out
the mouse is gone.

The item is small and silver,
a rock jutting out.
Barely large enough to pierce.
I will these feathers to drag themselves
back into my skin.
They stay, and
by the time the other girl comes
I am embarrassed.

Red ears and red dripping out of my leg,
I lie there, eyes closed.
A hand caresses my face.
Above me: black feathers,
smooth ink,
a long beak, and
no blood.
My breath catches and
everything recedes.