Mother would say I was born
naked and blind like a hummingbird,

no bigger than a bumble bee, able to get
as much lift from the down beat

as the up, unaware of danger: neither
preying mantis camouflaged below

nor kestrel by air. By far the largest
bone in my body: the breast!

to house the useless nonsense
of my heart, and a gorget

at the throat, as if male,
with its duplicitous shift of color

grey one moment, crystal red
the next, so strangers glanced twice

without knowing why—and, mother
complained—I came to crave

that staring, my tongue feather tipped
for wicking nectar. No girl

sets out to die, but try halting the quiet
click of keys in locks, Godiva

chocolate, bouquets, in the hands
of the man running your country

or his brother, coming for another
glance. And alas, that last cold night,

I could neither shake my slumber
nor raise my heartbeat,

the petals mammoth—veined and labial—
consuming my tiny, hovering head.