"The Trouble with Being Human" by George Kalamaras

It seemed secure as a proper-fitting shoe.Then the cabbage soup got cold.We leaned into our autumn eveningand disturbed the owl, somehow therein the kitchen, perfectly contentby the pot.  Mostly, though,our breath was gypsy.We touched a pair of candles.Great wagons with torches cametoward us.  The smell of Transylvanian pineresin and flame.  Long shadowslarger and smaller than a bark canoethat swept past, containing our secret.What grain of love grew in the unkind word?In the public coat and collar turningagainst the mold that collected just as anemicgreen in other people's plates?What was in the bone of the hand that made itreach toward another, shake vigorouslyupon meeting some stranger?  The rivers in the palmwere no help.  Once mine even readtrouble ahead at the same time as you are a perfect soul.What restrained the breath,made it lift and falleven in our sleep, as if some star-filledindigo ocean struggled against our will to floodthe prairie with the piracy of our dream?The soup contained tomato and leeksand, of course, requisite slabsof cabbage.  It recalled deep forest,Hungarian ponies, and dark rye,tasted vaguely of pine coneand the resinous sadnessof the poems of Lucien Blaga.We listened to the dwindling dancing firesnap of Saturday eveningradio talk, clung like salveto the list of jazz lionsafter each cut.We fed the owl tiny roasted seedsthat seemed to come from us.Asked its forgivenessfor what, as human, we had donejust to stay alive,for what hurt lay aheadwe might, unknowingly, one day do.