The Cardowl on My Shoulder

I am weighed down on each shoulder,
one carrying the anxious cardinal,
and the other anchoring the majestic snow owl.

It depends on the moment, but one bird always seems
to dominate the other.

The cardinal’s wings flicker like a light switch,
twitching across branches at the slightest sound.
It’s barely a bird; I’d call it a bright red omen.

It shows up when I am curled within the bottle of my own fear.
You can’t even twist the cap; I’m just fizzing on the inside,
waiting to froth the moment I’m opened.

The cardinal doesn’t feel safe unless it’s left alone,
much like my generalized anxiety disorder.

But the snow owl—oh, the snow owl—its thick,
​fluffy body is the embodiment of ease.
A blanket of feathers possessed by the steady wind,
it is trusting of the universe,
unlike my generalized anxiety disorder.

I can sense when both birds arise in me,
when the cooing cardinal is telling me to run,
and the snow owl is telling me to stay.

The anxiety looks like a mangled beast sometimes,
flapping one red and one white wing,
trying to compensate for the weight of each,
becoming a new creature entirely — a cardowl.

I have tamed both birds on my shoulders,
even as their temperaments warm and cool.

The fire of the cardinal, extinguished by the snow of the owl--
a delicate dance I think I’ll have to live with for the rest of my life.