Reincarnation

By Carolyn Howard-Johnson

An impossible moth,
dark eye at its center, opaque

helicopter blades buzz and blur,
a dervish I did not invite. The tiny

guest perches on a garland, twigs tied
with a raffia bow, as if it had found

a home. I see it now, blue-black hummer,
scarlet stripes, despite its size a beak

like a blade. He quivers, weak,
from flight. I wince each time he launches,

hits a wall, instead of following
light to safety. I slide open windows,

doors, so this humming thing
can find the sky. How do you benevolently

tame fright? A towel might
be a tender snare but cannot capture him

within its folds. He whips wings past
my rafters once again. Finally both

of us tire. Dead, he topples
to the floor, limp, warm, one eye

a foil bead. I carry him to my garden,
find a vibrant coffin—tiger lily I've seen

him pierce before—place him beak
first within the petals, orange throat,

last supper this final sip of nectar. He, alive
again, flits away.