Hummingbird Abecedarian
Arriving with throats like nipped roses, like a tiny
bloom fastened to each neck, nothing else
cuts the air quite like this thrum to make the small
dog at my feet whine and yelp. So we wait no
excitement pinned to the sky so needled, our days opened
full of rain for weeks. Nothing yet from the ground speaks
green except weeds. But soon you see a familiar shadow
hovering where the glass feeders you jangled and brought
inside used to hang because the ice might shatter the pollen
junk and leaf bits collected after this windiest, wildest of winters.
Kin across the ocean surely felt this little jump of blood, this
little heartbeat, perhaps brushed across my grandmother's
mostly gray braid snaked down her brown
neck and back across the Indian and the widest part of the Pacific Ocean, across the Mississippi, and back, slinking underneath my patio. I've lost track of the times I've been silent in my lungs,
quiet as a salamander, those times I wanted to decipher the mutter
rolled off a stranger's full and beautiful lips, only knowing it was
spoken in Malayalam—my father's language—and how
terrific it'd sound if I could make my own slow mouth
ululate like that in sorrow or joy. I'm certain I'd be
voracious with each light and peppered syllable
winged back to me in the form of this faith, a gift like
xenia offered to me. And now I must give it back to this tiny bird, its
yield far greener and greater than I could ever repay—a light like
zirconia—hoping for something so simple and sweet to sip.
(this is a type of acrosstic poem)
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