Sara Luisa Kirk

TETHER

Bereft of all but the sun
I map out any alternative

route to evening as if it
weren’t a sinking ship

as if the living
thick with panic

weren’t trapped.

Still the body sits
because it asked to

not mine
but to whom I’d like

to belong—
that delusion

the one that means
releasing

the last remaining tether.

No thought of action
just urge blooming

into motion
the birds I call mine.

What are birds for?

Of course, of course.
They’re not for anything.