Omen Poem by Linda Hepner

In the city where my son lives
I saw an eagle
hovering over his house.
I told them: there’s an eagle…
An eagle? And they laughed. Mom’s once again
got llamas on the brain, and now it’s eagles.
Come in and help us with your grandson,
teach him how to speak, he’s waiting for your stories.
Little pigs, the big bad troll, the baby bear
or make one up – an eagle, he’ll like that.
I tell my silent, big eyed grandson about Jack,
who climbed up into heaven
to outwit a giant.

In the city where my son lives
and babies had been born
I saw three vultures, hooded, crouching on the roof.
I told them: there are vultures…
as I kissed the newborn girls.
This time they ran outside and looked up, shuddered.
“I knew you never saw an eagle, ” said my son.
“I thought I heard them landing”, said his wife
and ran her twins indoors.
My grandson, big-eyed, ever mute, sat waiting for my stories:
I told him about wolves,
knocking on doors, climbing on the roof
to eat a little pig, the third of three.

In that city where my son lives
with his little family
I counted sixty vultures
sitting on the euchalyptus trees
weighing down the branches,
waiting for the dusk.
As I approached ten lifted off
and circled round and round
the street, the garden, trees and house
then landed on the roof,
roosting like hungry householders.
Inside, the babies crawled
on the carpet, their mother baked cookies,
their father fixed a faulty fan,
and I told stories to my ever silent
grandson, waiting for my constant, rhythmic repetitions,
Fee fi fo fum…. I’m a troll roll de roll,
Little Pig, Little Pig,
let me…. let me… SPEAK dammit,
let me
come in.