Picasso's Owl



It wakes for food,
staring at him hard.
Gloss black eyes
in the clock
of its face.
The hour is now
in its egg belly.
He feeds it
mouse.

It clamps the tail
in its beak,
swinging
the corpse
like a
pendulum.
Three
gulps
and it's gone.

He paints it
on pitcher,
plate and canvas.
The eyes
are watching him.
Cochon! Merde!
They are his eyes
but unafraid
of time.

Annie Fisher

If you have any comments on this poem, Annie Fisher would be pleased to hear from you.