Belly growing in the shadow that trails me
up and down the stairs to our abode;
I watch it as I watched leaves change
after my father’s death, suddenly aware.
This house has been through enough to be called home.
When a hummingbird fell from its nest,
I made a new one, put it in, watched for mom to come.
She returned for days until she didn’t anymore,
and, with no one but me, powerless to provide nourishment,
her young died alone in its makeshift home.
I assured myself it was the natural cycle:
Mothers killed by predators, fathers dying of self-inflicted illnesses
exacerbating disease, and life being created—
heartbeats fast as baby hummingbird breaths—
to be brought home someday.
Ashley B. Davis writes novels, short stories, and poems that tend toward the dark and gritty. An assistant property manager in Southern California, she holds a Master’s in English. She doesn’t have much spare time as a new mom to twins, but what little she has is spent at the local bookstore, seeking even more reading material to hoard for the apocalypse. Read more about her work at https://ashleybdavis.wordpress.com