my mother and father found me in a pile of newspapers
hidden amongst language i would someday claim,
or perhaps, stuck in the throat of a hummingbird,
unsure if it was my job to help it fly.
there is not much to say about the hummingbird:
only that its feathers are soft, its chest resembles
an idle car or a machine meant to tick much quicker
than a human heart.
i am the ash of a burning bush, maybe even God’s face
staring out from it, although i wouldn’t go so far as to call
myself holy, because Lord knows i treat his name like any
other word and i never learned how to be someone’s child.
men rarely realize their hands until they cut them off.
daughters rarely realize their mistakes until their
parents stop reading the newspaper.