The First Thing I Give Up

By Dorothy Neagle

There is the white belly of a hawk bending

over the Ford dealership on Central Avenue

and there is the voice of my fear which says

I’ll kill you for exposing me.

The first thing I give up is being liked.

It sheds. Someone walking in the woods

will spot the thin, hollow curve of my white

smile against the ground, and twirl it

between fingers, wondering

Is she colder now? Less bright?

The first thing I give up is going home.

I have to do it running–have to pretend

I will go back and so

I leave some things behind:

the bed where I slept, the bones

of my cat, daffodil bulbs.

Before I give up running

I have to give up the lie that I can hide.

I wonder if I will ever give up wishing

I could exchange long life

for camouflage, turn myself

into something that has no fear of dying

fit feathers back into my skin and fly.

About the Author

Dorothy Neagle is a Kentuckian who lives and writes in New York. The recipient of a fellowship from Yaddo, and a semi-finalist for the 92Y Discovery Poetry Contest, her poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in many journals and anthologies, including Sand Hills, Meridian, and The Appalachian Review. Her nonfiction has appeared in Memoirist, The Nasiona, and The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature. Read more from her at dorothyneagle.com or @sentencesaremyfave.