Hummingbird

That time I saw a hummingbird's guts

was the day you took me to twist copper into my insides.

I whispered under my breath to get through the pain

unmother

unmother

unmother.

The hummingbird was on the sidewalk.

Split open, shining

iridescent green and oxidizing red.

Slit open and so small.

Seemingly half grown;

Half realized.

A fleeting figment of a dream.

I'm not sure what hummingbirds mean.

But now?

I see death in their vibrations.

They beat so hard they go invisible;

An absence.

They move so fast it's like they never existed.

And yet;

(They hum to me, you will never be

'mother')

Unmother

Unmother

Unmother.