Parousia

By James Owens

This dream of return. Push through
A warm membrane into the room
Where you slept as a child.
The house at night. Soft bodies nest
Snugly in cloaks of breath.
Crimson wells hide in mirrors.
 
Do not forget that the sounds you startle awake,
The turbines thumping in the basement
And the squeal of a rusty gate,
Are only your heart discovering time,
Your feet on the stairs learning
To describe space by falling usefully.

You will arrive at the locked room,
The door at the end of the hallway.
Listen, ear pressed to the wood,
As every name the dust says means
You: sundered child, nub of flesh,
Sheath, intimate soil, nerve, healed beast. 

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​James Owens's poems and translations appear widely in literary journals, including recent or upcoming publications in Event, FreeFall, Dalhousie Review, Poetry Ireland Review, Arc, and The Classical Outlook. He lives in a small town in northern Ontario and teaches writing at Laurentian University.