A hummingbird is etched
at the nape of my neck
below a storm of hair
between a shiver of shoulders.
She hovers like a tiny moon
sipping cruets of honeysuckle.
My thoughts are a cutlass of emotion,
a chisel of shame or the begging
tongue of a starving feral.
Outside pink berries perch on pale slopes
inside a harvest of Robin’s eggs,
cached safe from the graze of sharp
teeth slicing through a sky blue dress.
My apple heart harbors man
whose anger is a ligature winding.
Its beat is the warm river of release
or a bleed across across a torn canvas