It was said that when Athena grew tired of heroes, her owlet fluttered all alone into the marketplace at noon. Solemn children came to stroke her feathers, to test the tiny claws, to look into its small unblinking eye. They knew her, they said, "of old."
That’s her? Doubting the whitefish, scanning the vegetables, carrying
Herself like an eggshell in the crowded mall? No way. I’ve seen her marrying Jokes and poems, playing skeptic householder amidst the mystery rites.
Can you see her with the Wife and Virgin at crossroads on the moonless nights?
Oh yes. It’s the child in us that spots her, notices her flutter
Over our horizons. The wary boy foresees her chuckle and mutter And scratch her nail down the hero’s chest before she surrenders
The riddle. Sees the candy house she tends in the woods for tender
Hansels, the cage, the stove. The girl discovers her in the smug Madonna,
Suspects she helped to dress Medea, anointed brooms with belladonna,
Charged the anxious Queen a year for every poisoned apple.
Oh, she’s the one. Watch. You’ll see the whole inheritance dapple
Her. She’s the one who makes the porridge and the poultice, protects
The baby from the changelings, washes the bodies after Troy, detects
The vanity in the crisp hecatomb, launders the blooded wedding
Sheets, tells the firelight stories, feels where everything is heading.
Enjoy the small soft owl. Watch its eye watch you.
Enjoy the moon. Remember what you thought you knew.
