April 20, 2014

Kate Soules

Owl Pellets 

That's not an owl, he tells me. 
It's only a pigeon who coos. 
I so want it to be an owl, 
soft, with brown and soiled feathers, 
choking up last night's catch 
into careful pellets. 
I was taught about owl pellets, 
how the owl devours 
a mouse, still warm, 
as it falls into the stomach. 
What the owl fails to digest 
comes back in clumps, 
in husks, 
We opened these pellets, 
sorting through bones and bits of fur to 
reconstruct what was once there, 
making neat piles of miniscule skulls 
next to rib bones. 
I didn't think of what I was touching, 
only of the act of recreation, 
sifting and peeling back layers.

Kate Soules is a classically trained clarinettist from Vermont who has degrees in English and music. In her spare time, Kate enjoys hiking, punk rock, and last-minute travel plans. She has published academically and in journalism.

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