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Hummingbird Eulogy
Zoey Hunsinger

A flower-kisser collapsed on the ground.
He refused to sing, wouldn’t flutter his wings
and wouldn’t sip nectar from a trumpet. 
He was imprinted into cement after the daring 
revolving door wouldn’t let him through.
I didn’t know his name, no one ever does. 
But I watched him
every day
from the cheap-seats of university grass. 
He sucked up to the peonies and 
licked the daylilies. His saturated red gorget
zoomed in the clouds, caught amongst the fallen stars.
He danced with Anna around hedges 
until the pink throat hummed a blue note.
Now his wings give one last beat and his eyes
close. I lay a honeysuckle petal by his four toes.
Give it a day, the gardener will sweep him up.