I'm fascinated by Mexican superstitions,
so I had a lot of fun with a poem entitled "Chuparosa,"
which means hummingbird.
I buy magic meat of a chuparosa from a toothless witch
who catches it as it sips flower wine.
She fills her palms with blooms and the bird dives
into the perfumed petals for the last time.
The witch claps her hands hard and blossoms float away,
but the small body is still.
As the bruja plucks the ruby and emerald feathers, soft pillow
for her grandchild's head, she dries the meat, magic meat,
which I buy to sprinkle in your wine
so you will see me, only me.
And you do.
You hover.
Your eyes never wander.
More and more on hot afternoons, I sleep to escape your gaze.