Field Holler
Behind bars in California,
Jon calls to tell me he is a member of the True
Owl family even though we still have the same last name.
I can imagine his call to flight.
How an alarm gets pulled in the heart of a strix
varia, and the air becomes the road. Do you believe me?
My beloved asks through the bars
around his nest. I ask him if he knows of anyone else
who has transformed into an animal altogether different than the one
they were assigned at birth.
And yet, I don’t believe those designations are the sole
arbiters of who we are and who we can be. He shakes his head No,
feathered cheek brushing up against
the phone in the jail’s community room. We grew up
on the Maryland side of the Anacostia watershed, and the watershed carries
a different connotation on its back
than the neighborhood of the same name in the District.
When we were young and in the suburbs, we thought, sure, we are all strigidae
and true. But the Barred Owl hunts
the Spotted, we were told, breaks windows. Local hunters began
preying on the barred but used fancy words for their violence such as culling and justice.
We were not quite Spotted,
but we lived among them. Jon hoots into the phone,
over and over, asks when he gets to come back home. I hang up without
answering and buy tickets for the Buffalo
Nichols concert. He’s a black man of the blues known for
bringing the field holler into the 21st century. First slaves, then convicts
would hoot or shriek
while swooping up cotton or tobacco in the fields
along the dorsal edge of Jim Crow roads. Maybe we learned
how to holler from the owls—
the sounds they make from their barred
and beveled bodies. A song we’ve needed to survive the days.