While Goya Sleeps

While Goya sleeps

The owls circle his head

Dropping down

To leave crushed acorns

In his hair

When he woke up

His face was pocked

With feathers

And across the room

There was a single owl

Staring back at him

Goya’s fingertips

Are dotted with paint

Despite his best intentions

Not to present

As a typical artist

Unconcerned with the cleanliness

Of his person

The owl accuses Goya

Of allowing the spark of creation

To pass by him

Instead of inflicting pain

To keep himself awake long enough

To capture the owls in their flight

Where are they now, Goya asks,

The owls such as you

Where are they?

The owl flies to the nearest window

And shudders its wings

Inviting what at first

Appear to be a parliament

But then Goya sees the leathery

Underside of their wings

And flees under his desk

As the bats dive towards him

Soon the ceiling of the room

Is blockaded by the squeals

Of tailored lagomorphs

Circulating in place

Waiting for Goya

To step out from under the desk

So they can envelope him

From where he crouches

Goya can see the owl

Perched beside the window

As if it’s somehow

In control of the bats

Goya reaches up

To grab his letter opener

From the desk

And one of the bats

Flies towards his hand

But he manages to pull the opener

Under the desk with him

And the bat crashes into the desk

Trembling the entire structure

The owl flies down to the floor

And approaches Goya

Who is shaking with fear

He doesn’t fear bats

But ignorance terrifies him

And he knows the bats

Only exist in the room

To remind him

Of the ignorance

That runs rampant

In the country outside

The owl only symbolizes nonsense

So as it comes nears Goya

Its wings spread out

And fall over

Into puddles of wax

Its beak spits out green ink

And its talons soften

And dissolve into putty

By the time it reaches Goya

It’s a pile of black paint

That Goya dips his already stained

Fingers into

And he begins to scrawl

On the surface

Of the underside of the desk

As he paints the bats

Flying above

And the owls

That he had hoped

Would visit him instead

He hears the high-pitched berating

Above him quiet to a whisper

And then nothing

He crawls out

From under the desk

And on the ceiling

Of his home

Is a mural

Of his life

His first steps

His lost love

His casket

The force of the image

Knocks him on his back

And he lays there

On the floor of his studio

Unable to catch his breath

The window remains open

And from outside

He can hear something

Calling out

It could be an owl

To another owl

Or it could be

Something lost

Asking for help

Finding its way

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