Self-Portrait as Hummingbird 

Mornings ought to start violet with time
enough to stretch my sabrewings,
sun by sun. When the mornings feel
flowerless, I try my best. Find sugar

to sate me, minute hermit I am.
Beauty lately the beam 
on which I perch and lean, I sungem 
my neck: lazuline, berylline, little methods

I employ, minor employees of minute joys.
I velvet my breast—yuzu or juniper,
depending on the day. I velvet my brows, unknot this blossom
crown and bound down-

stairs for some nectar quick.
A cinnamon rim rounding my bowl,
earl grey starring my throat, I sip
the silt collecting in the mug,
collect my feathers and keys and whiz

into the world, the world
perpetually open for business grim
and gobsmacking, the world
with all its hazardous stars barbing
our throats, which ruby in reply,
by which I mean there is so much blood.

There is so much blood.

My gorget like yours is nicked
and split by this. And you, too,
weary mountaineer, must tire

from talk of the summit and long
for a glad plummet, plum-sweet. Look
how your glitterbeard frays. Tell me:

how will we foot this sicklebill?
On what should we spend
these heartbeats? Must we scythe
through our days? I will tell you

at the end of mine, my ears are black
with listening, pressed as they were all
day to the dark door, seeking missives to ferry here.

Lovegrass

lover, come & ready with me 
this bed, join me in this 

tilling (call it a hungry rowing)
our muscles together at dirt’s mercy

will tear thousands of tiny times
(call it a strengthening) & the consequence 

will first sprout just above our bones
as a thrilling & prayerfully fruitful pain

when it comes, bring me your body 
& i’ll hush your ache in my hands

when i bring you my body
hush mine in balms

smug, we’ll whimper about the house
but be proud at what next sprouts

having collaborated with soil & sun 
to summon some vibrant arrivals

we’ll be past gladness once color
comes, when they will slip off dark sheets

stretch green necks, say a green 
grace & then in petals—erupt

peddling potions to lay the bees down 
in pollen, nectar flatters a proboscis to unfurl

our bed abuzz & frilled, our hearts ahum
what brilliance we’ll usher with our bodies

Basia Wilson is a poet. She holds a BA in English with a concentration in creative writing from Temple University. A finalist for the 2022 Banyan Poetry Prize, her work has appeared in Philadelphia Stories, Platform Review, Voicemail Poems and bedfellows magazine. Selected for Moving Words 2023, Basia's work will soon be adapted for film in a national collaboration between writers, animators and filmmakers with ARTS By The People. She walks, wonders, observes and writes in South Jersey. Catch up with her at basiawilsonpoetry.com.