PATRICK LAWLER

Hummingbird

Never certain
whether I’m the
hummingbird

or the hunger,

the burrowing
or the blossom. 

This alchemist’s breath.
This living graphic. 

This vibrating text.

A spurt. A spark. A lure.

A flag
for a fancy
country.

In Europe
they ended up
in glass boxes.

The head
like a bishop’s ring.

Fractal.   Flint.
Metallic flicking.

The tiny
meteor of the heart

bursts.

Sin-splashed,
it sparkles.

It glistens
like sex.

A transvestite’s
rainbow brain.

Technically
a jewel.

In the 19th century
millions

were murdered
so they could
be hats.

A sapphire soul.
A magician’s
last breath.

Thought
hovering
outside
the body.

Lucifer.
Ruby bliss.

Light
about to be
swallowed.

Wings blinking.

An inch of bridge
between
spectacle and id.

Eventually
you become
what you desire.

A piece
of ecclesiastical
sparkle.

A splash of purple
in an iridescent dive.

A liquid medal
for a biplane pilot.

A flying piece of sugar
for a fallen acrobat.

All mouth:
a semaphore of hunger
tapped out with the tongue.

Everything is
ready to be devoured.

A tiny aurora borealis
before a swollen blossom.

This courtship
between tongue
and nectar.

A gemologist
of indulgence.

The dipping into petals—
soft inner spaces.

Succulent
nectar cup.

The hummingbird
hypnotizes
the flower.  

   Contributor’s notes   
   Living on Burrowed Time
   Unnatural Selection

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