4/21

dead & living hummingbirds

as if the cure were repetition,
i beat my wings with ghosts.
drink the flower dry & move on
to find another face. 
wore my chest as red as light
would let me. refractions of teal
sent like messengers from 
another galaxy's moon. how close
are you breaking? i find edges 
in every single seam. is this where
i will miss a beat? where i will plummet 
or where a photograph will leave me
without any oars. the boats 
are made with holes. the feeder 
is held like a lantern by
a man who owns an oil rig.
there is nothing left untethered
but us. no ground at all. 
the dead hummingbirds tell me
i am closer & closer. i ask
"to what?" to which they respond
with laughter. orbs of glass
drop from my beak. i am not
in the business of deciding
who is & isn't a hummingbird but
if you feel fine you might not
be a hummingbird. we have that need
to tread air. i woke up with
such a desire for sweetness.
all the emptiness. ghosts swallowing
their old sounds. how to turn
a name inside out. i stand 
in the garden we always asked for
trying to decide from who 
i will get my seance today.
everyone has their nectar.                        

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