Tigers
By Melissa Ginsburg
for Erik Lemke (1979-2012)
1.
A hummingbird flies into a window
that looks like the sky. Everything around here
looks like the sky. The sky looks tiger striped.
They call that kind of cloud
something. I know somebody
who knows about clouds. I could find
out the name. Everything around here
has a name.
2.
The hummingbird fell to the deck. My husband picked it up.
—What did it feel like in your hand?
—Nothing. It felt like nothing.
—Where is it now?
—Gone.
—Dead?
—Not dead. It flew away. It disappeared and it disappeared again.
3.
I’ll tell you a joke. A hummingbird flew into a window…
I’ll tell you another joke. Treachery,
we were friends once.
4.
In dreams the bird
weighs more, so you can feel it
when you pick it up. So when
it dies it seems
like something actually happened.
It’s a word
bound
around your hand and a sign
at the stripped road.
A mylar star on a plastic stick
tied to the sign.
Blacktop. Post. A fat star’s
wrinkles
taut. It’s stuffed.
It’s shining.
There’s going
to be a party around here somewhere.
The bird weighs nothing waits nowhere.
The sky looks like a window and it flies right through.