One-hundred and Eighty-four: The Hummingbird

There is a hummingbird beating under my ribcage.
I hear it reading the braille of love and hope and
rage of its ancestors. The frail calligraphy moves
like shadows flickering in a cave. I have washed
it out with soap so many times, soaking the walls
in my penance, aching for cleanliness. Sometimes,
it works; the hummingbird turns mellow, laying
low in the bubbles at its feet, tired and relieved.

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I drink, I laugh, I smoke, I write.

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