I am not an enchanted owl,
but I want to be. I want to, like you
might want strong meat to chew on,
or else at the opposite extreme
rich thick creamy chocolate cake
that you might want or I …
but anyway, what I don’t want
is to be a piece of canvas, or paper
or board, or anything flat, two-
dimensional as a blade of grass.
It’s not that I object to being
Inuit (an Inuit anything)
because that would make me
racist, wouldn’t it? (Although I
don’t live in Canada or Alaska
so would it even count?) It’s the
print bit I don’t like to entertain,
not when pertaining to me, in my
good round flesh. But there’s this
one print I saw just now, when taking
a virtual stroll through a part of
the Canadian Museum of History.
The Enchanted Owl arrested me, with
its unblinking gaze, its half-curved
claws caught mid-retraction, and
its wild, expansive, stripes of feathers –
its confronting feathers – paused
for take-off, while this creature (me)
is briefly examined. I want to be the real
alive owl. I want to expand my wings,
cry out in a voice that I – who didn’t paint
this, or live there – don’t know, and will
never. I want to fill out that compact body
with food and breath, rise up to brush the air
with sweeps of those enchanting feathers.
Print by Kenojuak Ashevik (image)
(Fell madly in love with this image, then learned it's actually a famous 'Canadian icon'.)