Thief / Kelly Sullivan
At the door today I found a crumpled thing,
a golden linnet executed against the glass. It weighs
less than the lemon I slice and bring with your tea,
less than the hand you press in mine when we say
goodbye, formally, wrapped against our selves, strangers
on the street. The linnet does not move. After rain and days
it is darker, smaller, half decomposed. How long does
it take a body to break down? You grew older,
nearly unrecognizable but for love. Some
things begin again and find their voice. The linnet
could lift up on the wind, his tail might flip
and gather strength, his eye might blink and open
and his throat, as our throats could, change out and sing.
Some things go unspoken.
Kelly Sullivan’s poems have been published by Salmagundi, Poetry Ireland Review, The Hopkins Review, The Clearing (UK), The Moth (Ireland), and elsewhere. Her chapbook Fell Year was published by Green Bottle Press (London) last year, and she’s now looking for a publisher for her full collection, Tether. She teaches Irish literature at New York University.