Hummingbird, it was. I will touch you, wing to flesh. See my inner world in your outer.
A moment’s hesitation but brief respite from the inevitable climax, as if a curtain parted somewhere in the vicinity of heaven and earthly bliss. I am your safe lens. You won’t be harmed.
My quiet, unspoken assent, its descent on my
shoulder, arm, the small of my cheek, the side I favor when I run through countryside. Barely a brush, a whisper — the feel of rain on an empty shore — as if it belonged there all along, before languages, fatal hand to an angry dirty girl.
The moment we touched, the world opened up, a magical world of log people and superlative infinity sky. A brief second in life’s history books. Then, gone, as if in a dream. Because it was.
I am back in an empty hollow of my childhood. The children have grown and moved away, stationed elsewhere, in pieces on a pillar to American freedom, spokes on a sea. It is black and white, infinitely lonely — the home of the damned.
There are no birds.