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.

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