An owl family descends upon 

my grandfather’s synaptic membrane 

as he plants a period at his oak desk

on the first stanza of a villanelle

to a wife he only speaks to in the past tense.

Within neurons sparking consciousness, 

the mama builds a nest

by raiding their first year of marriage 

carved into the tree of his temporal lobe. 

His skin and his shadow’s skin

merge into one: he has no 

history of anniversaries or births 

to spring his words alive. 

They stand hollow on the page

through a mind-sight link 

consumed with owl infestation. 

Every night, the papa hunts fresh prey 

to bring back to the ravenous 

in a cemetery of memory.