Pascale Petit: Two Poems

The Hummingbird Whisperer   Let the surgeon who opens my mother be tender as a hummingbird whisperer. Let him pull back the walls of her abdomen and see uncut jewels under his knife. Let him have a pet name for each part— his hummers, oiseaux mouches, his beija-flores, colibris, his almost extinct hooded visorbearer. Let him handle them with crystal instruments, easing droppers down each throat to check their stomach contents are rich in micro insects and spider eggs, the nectar of never-before-seen orchids. Let him soothe them as their black eyes turn to watch him. Let them be so…

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