Owl

the carriage sits in the hallway,
squat, stolid reminder in wooly navy
blue and polished chrome, the
tea draws and
she quickly counts the lump sugar by

twos into the bowl:
still here--after so many mornings
disgorged from the hellish
center of the earth, pushing always
against the press of human flesh

still here, still here, still here--
still speaking, tongue
(guarded by American teeth, wire-
molded, polished) yet unsevered

still here--after so many nights
when stars pocked the skies and
the old owl cried, who, who, who?

Who indeed? She still has no answer.