hummingbirds
Little, so little, like the view of Jupiter
from Arizona. Like a sunflower seed.
you lick up the buds of pomegranates, milkweed.
you live in rosewood and cactus and juniper,
maybe. Mom says 11 of you watched her
give birth to me. Hovering at the window, agreed
in understanding a single mother. The weeds
outside shine indigo under the mountain larkspur;
do you keep my placenta company? Did it bloom
under the desert willow into lavender or wither?
Have the scorpions found it; exhumed
every bit of dried flesh left? The earth quivers
with turquoise nectar drips and watches the moon
peek out, just a sliver.
mule mountains
I wonder if the ground
waits for me, anticipates
my little foot, my weight.
Do I sink in each mound
because I’m more than moss? Found
together: anise and lemon trees. Eight
coyotes sing through the gulch, wait
for the slick copper smell of drowned
vultures from the monsoons. A
flake of agate sits open like a third eye,
a gift from the red clay;
how often do rattlesnakes lie,
silent like silver in the earth, like prey,
in order to watch the plum sky?
Mira Mason-Reader is a writer and dancer living in Eugene, Oregon. A graduate of the MA in Creative Writing program from University College Cork, her work has appeared in Cordella Press, ELKE, and The Walrus Literary Magazine, among others.
Grand Little Things 