The
Owl Book
1.
Though
all she need do to hook his attention is dangle
the
feathered lure of an open page, the cover distresses him.
Like
a subversive librarian, she keeps re-sticking brown paper
as
it begins to peel away. What is hidden is a trick of photoshop.
Six
solitary owls forced into a ridiculous parliament. They stand
side
by side, their adjustable claws gripping a gleaming branch.
Like
Shakespearean Fools, their tufted breeches blowsy on legs
too
thin. Old men who, in the tethers of their slippers, might
half-shuffle,
half
hop. Might wear their belts too high, like tourniquets
to
stem the slow leak of their hearts.
If
these birds spoke they would babble in archaic English riddles.
The
cover is his palimpsest. If she didn’t keep it under wraps, what
is
almost,
not quite erased, might show through with a careless rub of chalk.
They
would both rather remember the owls at the height of their powers.
In
the middle of each sulphured pupil, a cigarette lighter, aflame.
Their
bodies swinging from high circus-bar to bar through the snug
cirrus
of the sky’s abdomen, led by the satellite dishes of their heads
that
catch sounds and guide them to one ear or the other,
which
rest in different places either side of their skulls.
The
Alzheimer’s bird has flown into their house.
And
soon, regardless of her brown-paper bandaids, the invisible writing
will
show through. Emotion will linger when language is gone.
And
that is when she will wish for the mismatched ears of the owls,
one
opening high on the right side of her skull, one lower on the left.
She
could then absorb every vibration that bounces off
the
expressions on his face. And by timing when and where
those
messages ricochet in the tunnels of bone,
beneath
what feels like open wounds, she could pinpoint
the exact location of his pain.
2.
He’s
not old, just middle aged. And from the outside, seemingly
balanced.
She will write a book herself one day, the title:
You’ll
know who your true friends are in your body,
by
which of them abandons you first.
His
mind is intent on moving out, daily. Backing up
the
noisy reversing beep of the truck. Then, one by one, the careless
removalist
takes the boxes, ignoring their labels: fragile, do not bend,
please
leave this memory till last.
She
draws the curtains on their privacy. Dresses him neatly.
Shirt
tucked in with hospital corners. Dark mirrors on his polished shoes.
Strangers
who see them here on the park bench
might
perceive his perplexed expression as measured pondering.
They’d
wonder more at the buttons of her cardigan not matching
their
holes. And what, in her haste this morning, she pulled
from
the intestinal basket of single socks: one beige, one brown.
The
autumn sun is scaled, milk-seeds of light not quite freed
from
the caul of their husks. The view: pastry, with variations.
In
the foreground, filo trunks of paperbarks, under the worm
calligraphy
like piped caramel icing. In the background, down
near
the harbour, the wriggling light thrown off the water
from
the masts of moored boats, wrapping up a young girl
and
a couple wandering the shoreline. Reminding her
of
a dish she ate once in a seafood restaurant: prawns shrouded
in
a coat of shredded greek pastry, Kataifi, then fried to golden
straw.
She
reaches for his arm. ‘What colour is the breeze, today?’
He
gives her ‘Grass’. This synesthesia, for as long as it lasts,
is
a device to keep them talking. At breakfast he insists
on
toast-loud kisses. The cold bathroom floor is sharp pine-o-clean.
What
is the taste of grief ? she wonders. That deep-tissue masseur
who keeps hand-chopping her chest.
Rocky
road, perhaps, but not made of chocolate. A long ride
in
a jeep with no suspension, over uneven terrain.
He
points to the expanse of lawn that forms the shimmering littoral.
This
is where ‘grass’ belongs. The nomenclature
has
taken tenacious root under the thing it signifies,
despite
the onshore gusts, the dune’s erosions.
Instead
he says: ‘Masked owl.’
And
though the price of salt is cheap in this seaside town,
as
Lot’s wife turned thousand-time offender, she should know better
(
it is his brain, not hers, turning to pillars of crystals)
still
it comes out as the banter it once was. ‘Don’t you mean “grass”?
You said it yourself just a minute ago.’
‘Grass.
Fuck!’ He pulls at clumps of his hair. ‘Round eggs from
Africa.’
With
clenched fists in air, he caricatures the shape of a bowl.
There
is no help in his gaze.
It’s
Escher’s ‘Three Worlds’. Below. Between. Above.
A
triumvirate. Sky in the water. Leaves floating on it.
Real
leaves. And their distorted reflections.
The
carp tickling the branching tips of black trees.
But
then she remembers enough to see
his
words and actions as a pictograph.
The
sign on the road indicating, not masked owls up ahead,
but far behind.
They
saw the birds in the great sandy desert, thirty years ago.
He
drove her there in his rickety ute.
They
crept up on the nesting pair, hidden in a round alcove
inside
a cave. Two gnomic faces like cut-open
custard
apples oxidized to rust. Shiny black seeds for eyes
in
the gloom. They fluffed up their feathers in a bluff display,
then
made the warning sounds
of
a cat’s mewling drawn down the length of a metal grater.
She’s
sentimental now. ‘Do you remember we first met
in
the Botanical Gardens?’
He
draws his collar around his throat. Sits straighter on
the
bench. He’s getting ready for the bluff.
And,
determined to please him this time,
she
turns a blind tongue as he counts the eggs
of
his words and, coming up short,
raids the nest of her own, still warm.
‘Botanical
Gardens. You and me.’
Then,
less sure of himself. ‘Don’t you remember?’
She
wants to say:
Grass
fuck. Masked owl. Round eggs from Africa.
She
wants to make the shape of a bowl with her hands
to
hold him safe inside.
‘Thanks
for reminding me.’ She reaches for his fingers.
‘Good
girl.’ Her renunciation has made them sweethearts again.
He
brings his other hand to rest on top of their two
joined
ones. She puts the last piece of the puzzle of them
in
place on the summit, to finish the game.
Between
them they have made a hundred-year-old
book
of palms, the spine of knuckles
topsy
turvy but holding.
‘Good
girl,’ he says again. His eyes are soft water.
3.
He’s
fallen asleep in the chair, with an aniseed ball
still
nestled in his cheek. She imagines the soft pink flesh
turning
black. Wonders if it’s a choking hazard.
Those
two thrown-out-of-orbit, odd-shaped moons of his lungs
orchestrate
their indecisive tides.
Push
out his breath, think better of it, pull it back through
the
damp cave between his lips, now lined with spittle.
The
book is open on his lap at that saddest-looking bird of all.
The
barn owl, that roosts in the breathless, dust-mote attics
of
children’s story books. With a face like an abandoned
craft
project. One heart-shaped piece
of
dirty-white felt, stitched around the outline in
burnt-orange
thread. Then the whole pocket
turned
inside out. Reversed dark buttons
for
eyes. And for a beak, the curved tip
of
an upholstery needle, still poking through the material.
His
fingertips tap at the armrests as though pushing
the
rubber buttons that flip the paddles, that send the balls
to
the flash-clang targets. At eighteen, his mates called him
Tommy,
though he never wore the platform shoes.
Their
dates were always at the pinball parlour. He’d ignore
her
for hours while he, tit-for-tat, shook his favourite
Earthshaker
machine side to side, panning for a golden score.
She
always had a headache at the end of the night.
The
transfixing lights that wouldn’t stop flashing. The aluminium
carnival
music, like a cheap import of hell. And could never sleep
afterwards.
In her ears, the Sturm und Drang stretched melodies
of
youth. Behind her eyes, a carousel with brittle painted horses
impaled
on poles, their Münch-mouths shrieking.
Earlier,
she’d brought out the daily shoe-box of photographs.
Once,
in peace-time, they’d hung undisturbed in frames
on
the wall. But now, rectangles of paler paint line up
straight
as the ghosts of soldiers, the memories themselves
taken
down and drafted into this complicated war.
The
holiday snaps don’t interest him. The two of them propping up
the
Eiffel tower. And years earlier, standing apart, their damp backs
to
the railing at Victoria Falls. In the photograph, they look like
coloured
bobby pins fastened either side of a tremendous gush of hair.
She
knows he loves her still. When she brings out the pictures
of
their wedding day, the bells clang, the scores rack up.
He
relaxes, as though flying over a curve in a muddy bend of
stirred-up
river, to come upon, suddenly, a pool of clear, where
for
a few bright moments, he can see all the way to the bottom.
4.
Tomorrow
they’ll visit the doctor who has no desk calendar
so
those with appointments can’t cheat when asked
the
day of the week. Unsure, he will turn to her. Constantly.
And
constantly she’ll smile. She’s become so good
at
reassurance, he won’t peer anxiously for the messy threads
on
the underside of her eyes. Her seamstress work so fine
the
two internal stitches either side, hitching up the corners of her
lips
will
be almost invisible.
He’s
gone to bed now. But not to rest. Sundowning
they
call it: agitation, unease. Paranoia in the dark.
He’ll
dream of graveyards and flying, while the owl goes
about
its bloody business in his head.
The
strangeness of the sky will fold in to accommodate
the
accordion of his wings. Then his striped pyjamas
will
sprout feathers. He’ll lose the shame of a bladder
he
cannot always control and piss, triumphant,
marking
his territory. The adjustable claws of the devil
unpicking
his brain, will be tucked up and hidden.
It
won’t be long before he swoops to take her, unerringly
into
his mouth. She is made of the stuff of prey, eaten alive.
She
is small parcels of their mutual past,
kept
warm for the raptor.
When
a mouse is taken by an owl, before that last swallow,
its
tiny, liquorice tail, still alive and dangling from the beak
will
try to turn, as though to crank-start the motor
of that bone-crunching jalopy of death.
As
though impatient for what is now
an
inevitable journey, to be over.
She’s
thinking of Charlie Chaplin. The ill-fitting suit,
his
mute waddling. How his tricks were a plasticine face
and
the vaudeville stick of happiness, sadness,
swinging
to the tempo of all that he needed to say.
Grass
fuck. Masked owl. Round eggs from Africa.
In
this quiet, in the eye of the storm, before the call
of
the screech owl comes curdling from the bedroom,
she
knows that the time is coming
when
words will fail to keep them safe.
And
what then will be the vessel to hold them?
Outside
the kitchen window, thick fingers
of
night mist are rising from the cooling ground.
She
imagines the big hands of silence
in
Marcel Marceau gloves
trying
to make the shape of a bowl.
Here is a wonderful poem by that wonderful poet Judy Johnson that was
short-listed for the Newcastle Poetry Prize 2013.
