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I Catch a Hummingbird

in my mouth, stop her
midflight; miniature frame no heavier than a dime
on my tongue.
                                             My palate pinning this feathery moth crown to tail
                                              —riotous, methodical
                                                                         wingbeats: 15 per second ticking at my teeth.

The man speaks of his love of birds, drawing them
to his porch with suet and seeds; sighting crows, dark–eyed juncos, mourning
doves on his daily hikes through desert brush.
                                                   But what if
                                                                         I am both too wild and too delicate—a bird of
                                                                          prey who will proffer her throat?

I could crumple the hummingbird so easily, implode exquisite
              skull with incisors or thumb, rip wings like rending pages
        from a book.
                                                    I had thought they were more agile, cultivating a better
                                            sense of self–preservation, but then she made the misstep
                                            of approach.

When the man pronounces, “I am excited to see you,” I freeze,
                            pinned
             by the yellow gaze of a coyote, stilling
unruly wings that have carried me too far, too fast.

                                                                   Trying to parse his joy, to discover the blood
                                                                                in his teeth, should tell him all he needs
                                                                                             to know about this game.

Does the hummingbird know dread, feel it shiver the hollow
             bedchambers of her bones? Her gorget grazes the bitter
papillae as I bid her enter the coal
                                                                     mine of longing; I take no responsibility, swallow
                                                                     her scream as she plummets.

What is the inflection point of my own joy?
Is it the way the blood leaches from my hands, the man’s clever mouth
drawing it down, down,
                                                                             or how we talk for hours of the way manchego

                                                                          crumbles on the tongue, or of what becomes of a
                                                                 body lost in space, liminal corpse floating among unnamed
                                                                 stars?

Perhaps it’s when we lie
in bed together naked, damp despite the desiccated air—
                                                       hushed in the pink–breasted bloom of dusk; I trace the
                                           unsuspecting magpie on his chest, wondering if he knows what it means to
                                           be
                                                          crushed.

 

About the Author

Melanie Unruh has an MFA in fiction from the University of New Mexico. Her writing has appeared in The Meadow, Two Hawks Quarterly, The Boiler, New Ohio Review, Post Road, Sixfold, Philadelphia Stories, and Cutthroat, among others. She co-founded Plume: A Writer’s Companion, a literary community for women and non-binary writers, which has now branched out into Plume: A Writer’s Podcast. At present, she’s working on a YA novel and a short story collection.