Relapse
At the edge of a bed
near the infection of light,
Lazaro opens his velcro wallet
and plucks the dirty carcass
of a hummingbird inside.
The muted feathers, the stiffened cartilage
nestled between a bank receipt
and George Washington's
crisp grimace.
If every story has a beginning
this one starts in a shadow-
scarred room when the ghost
of a grandmother enters
like smoke, like bloody gauze.
Her eyes are stone, her hair
the stench of packed dirt.
Lazaro places the crusted bird
on the nightstand
near a syringe--
a bird once the symbol of
an Aztec God, once a gift
meant to be carried
in his left pocket.
Love and Prosperity.
A reminder that she
is in between them.