By Lisa Compo
My favorite porch. Light splattered
and speckled my arms, making temporary
freckles. This garden in the middle
of the dry, this hummingbird cafeteria
where a tree grows against
all odds housing a cardinal,
an incarnation. Its flittering
like a red-painted eyelid. Flying
upwards into the frothy sky, and our faces–
pressed against door glass, my grandmother
watched as her mother winked
into the sun.
