But Also

The lavish throat of a hummingbird

as it ravishes a penstemon

and low tide in evening, breathing

like a somnambulant beast,

but also, rip-waters beneath 

an orange bridge, its tips misted,

high above an island, stolen,

to jail the ones it belonged to. But also,

how I call my husband home,

moon-tied, bright with need.

Let’s not linger on the grip

of longing, the lost. We know

about my mother:

the branding, the night-terrors.

We know about the absence

of insects in the gas station light,

the eucalyptus in January, empty

of monarchs, soot changing the hue

of a moth’s white wing.

We know the cruel don’t die: they defy

the actuaries, while blood continues

to halo the cop-car seats.

But also, every animal

who’s touched me tells me

a story of space and wild.

I heard a wolf-bird creak

like a hinge, saw a door

open in the dark, a glow

outside, a human shape,

but changed.