Perseus and the Owl (An Epic)

Libby Bugay

In cool, forbidden rooms he basked, young.
Afraid of nothing.
His golden head
a secret hidden deep in the years that were
to come.
His life, running over and beyond its bounds
and he, behind, just barely keeping up
He had no time to think
or let his knees go weak
or his legs crumble
-oh no-
Only to keep a steady look ahead
a look that rain cannot pull down
or drench with all its power and its force.

He didn't pause to cry when metal
with its severed push cut heavy
through the necks of snake filled heads
in chambers we can never know
The ugliness a shrug, a blink, a step,
all hung about his shoulders,
soft and narrow.
He didn't flinch at teeth or chain
or her brown skin, all hung with amber sweat instead
He wiped his brow
A finger caught his eye and yet
He turned his back on the salt and the waves
where pieces of a monster lay
and touched her fingers and her throat
with something he had never felt
but that which did not make him
tremble.
And then,
a night.
Like all the rest it seems.
His eyes look forward,
shields to the dark blue road that gulps
as he drives fast
through country that he knows
as well as any man or so he thinks
until
the corner of his window fills with feathers,
dull, incongruous against the glass,
a silent thud-filled warmth that hits
then gone
And suddenly his breath feels rough
His fingers tense
His face fills wide and clear
He stops.
Opens the door.
Stands squinting.
Behind him is the bird, crumpled on the side
Spread thinly, poked by air
He feels his knees make contact with the ground
scraped raw and bleeding like a child
losing balance
His hands hang at his sides
the road is empty
the car hums nearby
oblivious.
His eyes dart to the spot
He feels a cold he cannot shake
The tiny robust body breathes no more
No hope for picking up and taking home
His strong hands only rake back tears
that come abruptly, on midnight roads, alone.