by Susan Vespoli
a hummingbird flittered on the other side of the glass
patio door a feathered sprite that stayed stared
at me hovered like an airborne messenger stayed
until I rose to face it look into its seed-bead eyes
watch its wings thrum to keep body aloft its face
breathing in mine until it released me lifted off
toward the pot of geraniums breathed in billowy
red petals sipped nectar through its dart-sharp beak
darted around the yard like a small soft helicopter
and then whoosh disappeared over the fence. I didn’t know
my son had already disappeared from this human life
or that I’d google to find a hummer is a symbol for freedom
and “may be a sign that a loved one has successfully made it
(like the hummingbird) to the other side and is doing just fine.”
Editor's Note: Susan Vespoli’s son Adam, shot and killed by police last week, appeared in many of her poems, including "Chicken" and "Alex's Teeth" (Alex = code name for Adam) in The New Verse News.
Susan Vespoli writes from Phoenix, Arizona where the opioid epidemic is still alive and well.
