Luke Johnson
Image by Danielle Dolson on Unsplash
Luke Johnson lives on the California coast with his wife and three kids. His poems can be found at Kenyon Review, Florida Review, Narrative, Cortland Review, Thrush, Palette, Nimrod, and elsewhere.
Larkspur
Just when
I think
the sky
has sloughed
its skin
so that breath
becomes untenable,
a hummingbird
stabs
the bluest
blossom, swivels
its beak to sate.
Behind the feeder
my daughter
spins
with both palms
raised, psalms
the blanched sky
Rain.
She's been
doing this for hours.
Rain.
Slaps a stick
to shriveled squash
to watch
its insides seep,
and swears
that when
the aphids’ plume,
they pop
like peppered corn.
Love, I say
and she stops,
comes closer:
scribbles her name
on freckled window, spits
then smears it away.
Come inside.
To which
she nods no.
To which
she calls down
braids of bees
to interstate beauty
and bear it.
I am speaking
of sorrow.
Of a hummingbird
working
rapid wings
in search
of just a sip,
and this little
girl, dizzy, pulling
up brick,
begging
for larkspur
mint.
©2021 West Trade Review
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