Migration
- Migration
This is how to count but not to measure:a small gland in the skull seeps, spills a voyagein us. Wants to take us to the next reticulum of land.
This is how to know a concrete box and still want to wing free. Lap, lap,then lift your head: that same plastic island and a tree. Lap, lap,
and lift your skirt—beneath it isthe throat.The more you go the less I no, no silversea but in a kitchen kettle.
So why this engine inthe ribs? Why this voice beyondwhat we can vessel? [End Page 112]
Michelle Lewis's poetry has appeared in many journals, including Bennington Review, Indiana Review, Drunken Boat, and the Feminist Wire. She is the author of the chapbook Who Will Be Frenchy? She lives in Maine and can be reached at mlewis@whitechicken.com.
