Hummer
I think of the unspoken, his airless room,
the words my father coaxed from his lungs
with the help of oxygen. The suitcase I found
on the shelf above his bed, with its jars
of mummified occupants, how I unwrapped
the photo curled around each hummingbird couple
like a sarcophagus, the smell of honey
mixed with formaldehyde, and how, when I prised
the male from the female, their throats
glowed like embers just above slit chests.
I saw it all then—a boy with his slingshot
in the forest at dawn, his hands pinning
the hummer’s wings, the penknife slicing
through its narrow breast, its tiny heart torn out—
still beating, hot on my father’s tongue.
