Migration
       

This is how to count but
                        not to measure:
a small gland in the skull seeps, spills a voyage
in 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 is
the throat.
The more you go the less I
                no, no silver
sea but in a kitchen kettle.

So why this engine in
the ribs? Why this voice beyond
what we can vessel?

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Copyright © 2019 Michelle Lewis All rights reserved
from Animul/Flame
Conduit Books & Ephemera
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission