An owl family descends upon 

my grandfather’s synaptic membrane 

as he digs the final period 

on a postcard to his wife 

he will only remember in the past tense.

Within a neurological forest,

the mama builds a nest

by raiding the first year of marriage 

carved into the bark of his temporal lobe. 

His skin and his shadow’s skin

grows into one: he has no 

history of anniversaries or births,

his mind consumed 

by a great-horned infestation. 

At nightfall, the papa hunts fresh prey 

to bring back to the ravenous 

in a cemetery of memory.