What I want is not hope but ghosts.
Winged things from a before time.
I am falling and I am not falling.
It’s all in the angle of the sun.
There is no word for all the sounds
of the sad heart.
There are days when my feet step
over the debris of a long life.
An ache in the right hip, the shoulders,
the pointer finger. These arms.
They ache for something,
I must not collapse like the dark star.
I want morning but I don’t want to
get out of bed.
Maybe I just have the blues,
the blahs, the but whys,
the butter of longing.
Outside my window, a hummingbird
shapes bits of dust to make
a nest, warms her eggs.
Then feeds the newly hatched
with her long beak. Their open
mouths eager, hungry.
I want that kind of sweetness,
that nectar.
Look, the nest is empty today.
The birds have fledged.
The mother just hums.
Altadena Poetry Review 2025 Anthology