We Went to See Hummingbirds in the Aviary
They lived in the Butterfly House. I saw
one once in the Castro, a July day shrugging
with the diffidence of October, and I don’t want to say
the intrusion of magic into an ordinary
day but there it is. We saw butterflies
but not hummingbirds, and I wanted
to point one out to you. I wanted the flutter
of joy to steep in you as it had me, rapidly
blinking my eyes to make sure
I had it right. I wanted to point out to you
the unassumingly beautiful, the suddenly here
and just as soon gone of it, something
we could ask each other, Do you remember? about.
It had been your job once, to annotate
the world in this way, name the airplane
I pointed to, the wonton I thought was called
mosquito but wasn’t mosquito. It had been your job
to ask in letters whose pages were held
together with silence, when you donned yellow
rubber gloves and sank into Pine-Sol, whether
I would know what smell overwhelmed you
as you scrubbed floors, saved
money, taking care of children for cash that
one day would take care of me. I hadn’t thought
it would be mine so soon, becoming an augmented reality
you reached for, wondering if the elusive
hummingbird was a symptom of your detached cornea,
its trilling wingbeats the scratch of letters spilling
down your page. I hadn’t thought one day
you would ask and I would go back to get another
napkin for you from a tucked away bakery
in Paris, quietly scolding myself all the while.
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