I wrote the title of the lesson on the board and underlined it with a flourish. The class listened to my introduction.

I used to ‘see’ you when you were alive,
I mean when you weren’t there. I carry you
around like a photo in a wallet.

All summer the sun scorched the city
and the sky held back its tears.

The night before,
I paced London’s streets
sparkling and fizzing with ideas
the pills used to dull and destroy.
I felt awake, alive.

And so I went into the owl.
 
Eyes, green as moss,
darken to black. Oak tassels
spell-woven to feathers.

You notice the nose: webbed veins spritzed
with little flicks of red, purple blotches
daubed with a palette-knife, broken ends
where blood-vessels gave up the ghost.

Fascinated by the priest’s teeth I don’t realise
I’m kicking the pew in front with a restless foot
until someone taps me sharply on the knee.

In Italian I have no inner life.
With no past or future tense
My needs are immediate.