Poetry
SPRING 2022
Days Measured in Hummingbirds
by REBEKAH WOLMAN
which are sometimes
hummingbirds
darting
between peripheries
instantaneous, easy to miss
and auspicious as meteors
or flying in place
the figure eights
of their wingbeats
supporting them
as they tread
the startled air
sometimes they are sphinx moths
hawk moths
hummingbird moths
which I first saw in France
where I mistook them
for hummingbirds
not knowing
there are no hummingbirds in France
sometimes
they are thoughts
darting
then hovering
over gardens of language
foraging and feasting
probing their long tongues
of impression
sensation
idea and meaning
into the throats of words
like certain flowers
evolved to the benefit of both
their own reproduction
and that of the hummingbirds
whose heads collect pollen
at one flower
and deliver it to the next
finding nectar
in the fit
between the contents of my head and the qualities
of my materials
and sometimes
the hummingbirds are long broad fields
of still silence
that hummingbirds
whiz into
and out of
Note: Italicized lines are from Art & Fear: Observations of the Perils (and Rewards) of Artmaking by David Bayles and Ted Orland.
Rebekah Wolman
Rebekah Wolman lives in San Francisco, on the unceded ancestral homeland of the Ramaytush Ohlone people. Her poems have appeared in Essential Love, an anthology of poems about parents and children, and in The New Verse News, Limp Wrist, MacQueen’s Quinterly, Orotone, and Cultural Daily, where she is a 2021 winner of the Jack Grapes Poetry Prize.