Sure

Jean Esteve

The sun that succumbed to the mudflats
some time around four in midwinter
was blue as an owl and now its power
to rouse us is gone, gone, like the nuclear
end-of-the-world. I’m glad you were sure.

The sure blue owl circled an earth
mouse-less as your mother’s kitchen.
Moon-colored claws cupped the night air
angry and hungry. I’m glad.

Pure truth rose from the mudflats
rusted and covered with barnacles.
There you were with binoculars, shifting your view
from it to owl, from owl to it. I’m glad of your witness,
glad you were sure.

 

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Jean Esteve’s poems have appeared in Confrontation, The Iowa Review, and Mudfish.

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