Michael Minassian: THE HILLS OF MEMORY

Click to hear
THE HILLS OF MEMORY read by the author, Michael Minassian.


“They say the owl was a baker’s daughter.
Lord! We know what we are,
but not what we may be.”

- Ophelia

In the evening with the sun gone
I could see the stars appear
one by one, then in pairs,
trees deep dark green
stark against the disappearing gray,
silhouetted like the hills of memory.

There, near a row of pines
feet cushioned by the dewing grass,
I thought of the owl
that was the baker’s daughter;
was she chaste as a bird,
the heat of hunger in her breast
chasing prey at night, the push
and rush of wings as currents
of wind stroked back feathers,
talons out, sweeping low to the ground,
striking and feeling the last frantic
beats of some creature’s heart,
beak parted, eyes so wide
she could almost fly backwards
through her sight;
at that moment, did she remember
all the way back to her other life,
the smell of bread, the taste of sweet cake.

Copyright Michael Minassian

THIS POEM FIRST APPEARED IN CONNECTICUT WRITER MAGAZINE SUMMER-1988 AND WAS AN HONORABLE MENTION FOR BEST POEM. It is used here by kind permission of the author.