Owl Splinters
by Tyler Jagt
Although deep within sleep he opened
his eyes, sat upright in bed and gazed around
the room before biting into his hand so
brutally the gash showed up for months after.
I know this, I was there; lying next to him I
watched the cords of muscle tightened in his
shoulder when he pierced the webbing
between his thumb and finger, asleep but
unconfused. I grabbed him. Shook the
shoulder until there was a mutual sense of
watching one another. I am looking for a
bird, he said. He reached for my mouth to
pull back my lip and considered my teeth—
then slept.
For the rest of the night I watched
his face flicker open and shut, body in bed
but mind out there wandering the night. I felt
something in the windows, when I looked it
rattled the glass and ghosted the surface into
the street. Then one bird shrieking in the
distance, then two.
Tyler Jagt is from rural Ontario, Canada and lives presently in Georgia. He has taught literature, poetry, and academic writing for several universities, including James Madison University and Mercer University. Aside from literary work, both his photographs and paintings have appeared in galleries across the greater Atlanta region.
