Scarlet blossoms coax the hummingbird’s
long-beaked hunger. Beside the bloom:
a flurry. Motion obscures
the wings that make the motion.
The deep-throated flower mocks
the tenor on stage. No sound needed to lure
a beauty, the winged one, in.
I hold my child’s hunger in my skin.
Am I the flower or the bird
as, from another room, I feel her cry
red-faced and hot
before she opens into sound?
A string in my chest tightens.
My feet sprout wings to meet her.