Joe Cottonwood
Joe Cottonwood has repaired hundreds of houses to support his writing habit in the Santa Cruz Mountains of California. His latest books of poetry are Foggy Dog and Random Saints. He would welcome you on Facebook (https://www.facebook.com/joecot). His website is joecottonwood.com
Anna’s Hummingbird
On this careless planet
little Jacob shouts I found a bird!
I warn Jacob not to touch.
I tell Jacob it’s an Anna’s Hummingbird.
Fluffed, huddled on gravel over tiny feet.
Jacob says Anna’s vibrating. She’s cold.
I tell Jacob a hummingbird heart
can beat a thousand times a minute.
Mine too.
Our kickball game forgotten.
Can’t you do something?
I take off my shirt, slip it under like a gurney.
Anna flutters, makes faint peeping noises.
She’s scared!
I carry shirt and bird to the carport, bunch the
fabric like a nest, place under a lamp for heat.
We’re trying to help you, Anna.
She lies on her side, feet outstretched.
He who could never sit still, crouches.
Get warm, Anna.
I could tell him. I don’t.
But I’m shivering, I want my shirt back.
Jacob whispers as if blowing into tiny lungs
Breathe, Anna!
Heat lamp glowing, tenderly he waits.
Our hearts are slowing, spirits growing.
Potsdam, New York
In the old high-ceiling stone-step library
housing epic tales
a glorious woman with glowing hair
color of late-day sky
dances like a flag on a used-car lot.
Her silver dress clings—
snakeskin with a bulge where
she swallowed a bunny.
Now she tap-dances
rat-a-tat-tat heels
across wooden floor
slapping stories into shelves
adventures in volumes
while the womb a perfect partner
follows her lead.
She flicks overhead lights
meaning you must gather and go
check out the legends
or leave them behind.
She’ll lock all doors
caging you in
or shutting you out
as she dances onto the stage,
the great theater of motherhood
tales tragic and joyful
as we all live our own drama.
