Elijah Matthew Tubbs lives and writes in Arizona. His work is forthcoming or has appeared in Sonora Review, Hobart, Glass, and elsewhere. He is co-founder of ELKE, "a little journal." ---------
From Archipelago
*
Hummingbirds ogle through
my windowpane, crack
their beaks against glass
to get a sip. Because inside is all
glitter and cerulean.
Soon it will blacken.
Dead wood.
*
A pacific wren
on a thin
broken cedar
branch picks dried berries
from a dead bushel.
Cock-eyed
it presents a peace offering.
Never would I
wage war
on song.
*
Through lunar fields
we walk,
both hands over our eyes.
Dry blood of sumac berries
stain our calves, moon glow winks
off our skin at the field mice
who pack in behind us,
scramble in the dust
plume of our heels.
Between the spaces
of crooked knuckles,
a vaulted sky, star clots and satellites
under night’s skin like veins.