Owl Run
He runs to the owl’s woods the way a teenager hopes
to bump into a crush at the coffee shop
or movie theater, but he’s over forty, running
to keep his heart and mind from failing
the way they do in his family, and he’s breathing
heavy when the path loses its concrete
and grass bisects the dirt like a crossed out sentence.
He’s seen deer here and armadillos,
both living and dead, possums still as rocks,
either living or dead, a hawk on a signpost,
eating a snake that writhed like a boiling noodle,
but it all felt like spectacle, nothing more.
The last three mornings, though, the barred owl
directed the soft satellite dish of her face at him
as if she knew what he was—not a threat,
not prey either—then kept pace with him, flying
from one branch to the next, a companion
for at least a quarter mile. He’s thinking of the old gods,
how they’d come down to watch us struggle
for their pleasure, but often, despite themselves,
fall in love with us, and how that just made things worse.
He knows he doesn’t need a god for grace
or damnation, knows his own mind is capable
of creating both, but he’s looking up at the branches
and is disappointed when there’s nothing there.
The Story I Have No Right To
The story I have no right to calls once a month,
and I watch the screen until the ringing stops and feel
like a child under a bed, eye-to-eye with shoes
that pause before trying another room.
The story I have no right to sends letters chastising me
for not answering the calls, repeating that it has always
cared for me—there were strawberries in sugar,
cookies on its porch, ice rinks I could not drive myself to.
The story I have no right to sends my daughter gifts
and money, large checks my friends say I should cash.
The story I have no right to taught me how to fish.
Its hands are part of my story, too, it would have me know.
The story I have no right to knows that I’m waiting for it to die
and that I think that will make everything easier.
The story I have no right to knows that I am wrong
and that it will not die and that it will never be easier.
The story I have no right to hides the truth
behind other stories, the way my neighbor’s cat
hides the chipmunk on its breath
behind a closed and purring mouth.
For example, the story I have no right to reminds me
that it looked after me when my father had a stroke.
And didn’t the story I have no right to
travel through many snow and rainstorms just to see me?
The story I have no right to believes in forgiveness,
and angels who believe in forgiveness, and it wants me
to believe in the angels, too, so they can grant the forgiveness
I cannot and would not grant.
The story I have no right to knows that I have no right to it—
and that’s its strength. The story I have no right to
knows that if it remains untold it will never end
or have to deal with the question of what happens next.
James Davis May is the author of two poetry collections, most recently Unusually Grand Ideas (LSU Press, 2023). He has received fellowships from the Bread Loaf Writers' Conference and the National Endowment for the Arts. Originally from Pittsburgh, he now lives in Macon, Georgia.