Hummer

I think of the unspoken, his airless room,

the words my father coaxed from his lungs

with the help of oxygen. The suitcase I found

on the shelf above his bed, with its jars

of mummified occupants, how I unwrapped

the photo curled around each hummingbird couple

like a sarcophagus, the smell of honey

mixed with formaldehyde, and how, when I prised

the male from the female, their throats

glowed like embers just above slit chests.

I saw it all then—a boy with his slingshot

in the forest at dawn, his hands pinning

the hummer’s wings, the penknife slicing

through its narrow breast, its tiny heart torn out—

still beating, hot on my father’s tongue.