Holly at House of Heart
A hummingbird is etched
at the nape of my neck
below a storm of hair.
She hovers like a tiny moon
sipping cruets of honeysuckle.
My mind is a cutlass of emotion,
a chisel of shame or the begging
tongue of a starving feral.
Pink berries perch on snowy slopes,
deeper, harvests of Robin’s eggs.
I want to keep them safe from the
graze of cold teeth passing through
a sky blue dress.
My apple heart harbors man
whose anger is a ligature winding.
It’s beat is a warm river of release
or a bleed across a canvas of ice.