HUMMINGBIRD OF UR
by Katherine Soniat
Wings fresh from the realm of wild horses. Fast |
and faster, one little bird zips through fuchsia,
through the occasional shade of a palm.
Who keeps track of speed in this great world
of spin and fledgling sadness?
Bombing all day, bullets for night. Houses
from the sky must look like hummingbird eggs
to war's polished pilots:
Grids of city blocks,
bodies like immaculate dolls on the faraway stretchers.
A new-born's skull closes to such mad fluttering.
The heavy human heart.
Baby and bird turn to ash, and the sun goes down
in its broken-flesh colors.
Exotic, the red gashes halt us. We
linger, second glance at a second world.
Any which garden should be fine for a bird
with less than an ounce of meaning, with a breast
not meant for consumption.
"Filet of hummingbird,"
one poet said over the night grill, her mind watering.
Touch a ghost lightly and dust purples the dirt
where the frail things are laid.
Copyright © 2007 - Katherine Soniat
Published: 3/22/07 · Author's Page · Next Poem