Unraptured
           for my mother

Convinced she had already died,
she awoke confused,

still in this broken frame, nursed
for organs’ failure, wracking thirst.

Why her Lord returned her here,
she could not fathom.

Had she not been raptured?
Why did He not keep her

once she’d surrendered,
transcended pain?

Annealed in His arms,
she’d felt as glorious and strong

as the scent of lilacs
the day she’d been born.

Why endure more,
wasn’t she beyond

the owl’s tremolo?
Wasn’t her breath

already the fleece of the Lamb?

Visitant

All through our third-story meal
we hear its hoots as darkness falls
into a dazzle of shooting stars,

before the great horned owl
swoops to the balcony rail,
one wing-beat from our table.
Its yellow eyes drill through us.

We barely breathe.
The raptor’s fierce stare
prompts my mother to say

she’s ready to go. Not indoors—
she stops me from picking up plates—
no, our uncanny companion
thrills her, she meant

she misses those
she can no longer call or hold.
I’m just waiting to be taken.

The meteor shower dwindles
to a few stray streaks.
The owl swivels its head
toward a stirring below.