Marilyn Baszczynski

The nectar becomes stale and rancid
in the feeder. Still I keep it full. It drips sometimes

and I step in the sticky spot, wondering,
Have I done something wrong?

I don’t hear their look-at-me chirps or the drone, low
persistent whirr that makes me thrill

expectant and joyful at the sight
of their hovering hungry iridescence. I know

you said you’d never come back. Still
I keep a box of your favorite cereal

in the cupboard. And still I cook foods
you’d probably like, always a little

extra, just in case that moment of forgiveness
arrives unannounced.

I don’t mention your name, so as
not to anger your father, but he knows

how upset I am about the hummingbirds
not coming back.