The homo viator moves on his stage,
    prompted by hoarded plaudits stored
    in his hungry heart: one more bow,
    and he retreats behind the curtains
    to await those calls for an “encore”.
    No calls come, the curtains fall.

    The gobbling fowl’s theatre is not off
    the prompt mark: preening, hamming,
    posturing, he goes through the acts
    lusting for audiences who might weep,
    laugh, bellow, strut, and ache with him.

    When the curtain falls, and fleeting
    encomiums echo only in the emptied
    cavern, he wonders if the season
    would end when even hummingbirds
    are no longer waiting in the theatre wing.

    —Albert B. Casuga

  2. Interior Landscape, with a Frenzy of Wings

    What wind hovers,
    hummingbird-like, over my face?

    Copper scales at the throat,
    pulsing ruby and emerald–

    often there is no word
    for such intermissions.

    Along the edges of fronds, slighter than
    a cut, a gilded pencil stroke;

    round upon the tongue, dark
    fire that finishes like a vowel dipped in salt.

    A homing– the way you cup
    the back of my head in your hand

    so I tilt my face toward the light
    that sings through lashing rain.

    ~ Luisa A. Igloria
    04 29 2011

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