by Ross Gay

One day your father begs,
cinched to the steel of his bed
by cloth restraints against
which pulling, pulling, he
begs you to take the tube
from his throat ___ the next
a hummingbird, a green
and gold iridescence,
invisibly winged thing
blurs into, almost,
your hand to sip the small
nectar inside the small
blooming thing there.

Read Ross Gay’s Ode to the Flute

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