Hummingbirds

I watch hummingbirds at the feeder. One perches on the handle while the other dive bombs it for reasons that are a blur. They spin and fight. They arrive together and leave together, and no one gets to eat. I don’t know when I lost interest in why anything is the way it is. From time to time I find a letter, an email, a phone number from a person I sent love to and have forgotten exists. Today I picked a grapefruit from a tree, cut it the French way, as if to serve it, and ate it myself. I don’t remember when I formed a romantic image of traveling light, emotions being all you need to carry. The man I live with and I watched the Web series “High Maintenance,” about a guy who deals pot and enters the lives of his customers in the middle of a scene, not knowing the beginning or end. He is always kind and always a little stoned, and you think pot takes the edge off what is missing. There is something soft and tentative about him, which reduces his erotic energy, sex being about keeping absence unfllled. It reminded me of a man I had once loved who was mostly absent. The hummingbirds are so in love they can’t be bothered to eat.

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