First Morning
Betsy Fogelman Tighe
Not watching where I walk,
my foot flips a small dead finch
suicide of glass wall you abhor.
You come from the kitchen
trailing scents of green, kneel,
instinctively move to salvage
what beauty you must, pull from it
the wing span and tail.
Your large hands move
quickly, delicately and I think
it's at that moment I see
how much I yearn for you,
imagine the perch I might find
in the canopy of your strong limbs.
You promise then the bird will be reborn
in earrings or a ring
that I may wear proudly
through the world where it sang.
About the Author
Betsy Fogelman Tighe has published widely in literary magazines, including Rattle, twice; The Georgia Review, and TriQuarterly. She won a Pushcart prize in 2025 as well as a third place and a first place prize from the Oregon Poetry Association in previous years. Her full-length manuscript has received an Honorable Mention, been semi-finalist for two prizes, and a finalist for another. Tighe retired in 2022 from her good work as a teacher-librarian in Portland, OR and now is free to spend much of her time in the company of poetry.