In the Calyx




Never will I be a mother

        but this morning
when the hummingbird
        arrived at my feeder
I learned how one
        might find herself
wholly in love
        with the miracle
of a small body,

        its bill and tongue
darting in and out
        the plastic red flowers and fake
yellow stamens, 
        how earnestly it sips
a simple nectar
        of tap water and sugar,
how one tiny bundle
        can hold itself
upright in thin air,
        zip forward and backward
in joyful figure-eights
        then plunge from the sky
to hover again safely.  I learn

        it's a boy!
watching the reflection of
        his red gorget,
the metallic patch turning
        black to red
by way of light's angle,
        and two glass wings
vibrating so quickly
        they appear to multiply
as the seed of Abraham.

        Oh how I wanted
to kiss his belly, his forehead,
        to bless that ring of fire!
I held my breath
        so as not to startle
as my heartbeat kept pace
        with his wingsong.
Oh, how the fledgling
        arose out of nowhere,
like the stinging in my
        swollen  breast.












Originally published in New Millennium Writings
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