When I Am a Hummingbird
I love two dogs, even when they’re killing a baby possum near the columbines, shaking the varmint until the death squeal chokes to a gargle, and both dogs stand before the bloody marsupial nosing it to move, because that’s Nature, right? (And whom did I just ask whether that was right?) (And what’s a moral quandary for a possum?) I love the dog who leans, matter-of-fact in her need, and the big smile of the small Pit Bull. But when I am a hummingbird, finally, I will beat my wings eighty times per second, thousands of seconds and eighty thousands and thousands of my splendiferous beating wings, faster than all of the eighty thousand beautiful things in the world, and no one will stop me or catch me or take my picture, I will be too fast, and I will dive into the meat of the possum and beat there, the mean, bloody thing alive again.
Copyright © 2019 by Alan Michael Parker. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on February 12, 2019, by the Academy of American Poets.