Three a.m. bolt of panic hits, thoughts of disasters
to come. Spring out of bed, blazed by adrenaline.
Transfixed by the body’s power to destroy.

Everything that matters in that moment lies
in the word relief. Then it passes. O remember,
driving down I-5 from Oregon, steep
through the Shasta Cascade, you saw a Winnebago
sprouting flames from its rear brakes.

You leaned on the horn. Everyone leaned
on their horns. The heavy wheels flew downhill,
family inside. On a long curve you heard the explosion,
saw the thing flattened, black as a charred cake.

Of course you remember. The flaming load
of the past careens on, disguised as the future
at three a.m. Back to bed. You’ve seen things that
branded you, more than just that,
but for all you know they released someone.

Stepping on the porch,
I found a small gift,
a faded hummingbird
resting on its side.

Transferring it
to the palm of my hand,
thinking it dead,
I thought of my mother

dead last week on the floor.
I made a wager with myself,
if the coursing blood in my hand
could revive the bird,

my mother too would return.
The engine of its throbbing heart
pulsing a thousand beats per second,
warmed my hand,

a declaration of life,
as the quick and dead vanished
beyond my limited sight.

Let me be the bacon
To your tomato heart.
Heavy on the mayo, light
On the toast. Deal the lettuce
Leaves from their round deck.
Tear the ends
Of paper straws and launch
Their sheaths into the far
Stratosphere, booths beyond,
Our foreheads touching over
Vanilla cokes as we sip.