Starling’s Egg; Short Infinites; Hummingbird

Starling’s Egg 

The first thing I know is I cannot hold tight 
the fragile and hidden body inside 
the cerulean shelled egg, snatched by the wind 
from its home in the mothering tree 
and shattered against the full round earth, 
stopping the half-formed heart, 
the baby’s uncalled, bald cry. 
The first and final flight. 
I cannot cradle the broken wing of the unsung thing,
cannot whisper its name or stroke the back 
of the newborn being. I can only peer down 
heavy weighted at the ants filling and feasting 
on an ounce of flesh and heart wing. 
Had the thing a name I would’ve prayed
for it to make it to the sun;
the luring light of fallen winged beauty.
But nameless I can only bury the starling
at its mother’s grieving feet.
Short Infinites 

My sweet Babe’s laughter buoyant bounces 
off the air, carrying with it an entire universe 
in a brief moment. Tucked into that sweet chortle is the joy
of cotton candy skies over mist kissed mornings, 
the hushing of the waves that smooth the sand’s worries.
It is the warmth of coming home, out of the cold 
on a tired, darkened day. It sings of the ease 
of summer heat relenting into cool aired evenings. 
I am captured by its unexpected sound
when discovering the humor of being. 
So untouched by worry, for a moment 
I am afloat in this space of tenderness 
and bursting starlight that goes on and on, 
breaking up the length 
of these relentless days 
into short, beautiful infinites.

Air perched angels 
bless flowers with honeyed mouths---- 
quick like lovers and ghosts. 
A brief image of iridescent feathers; 
I think we are not meant to capture this brief visit
from an ancient God of song and war. 
Born from the eye of summer
she appears, a bright child of the sun. 
Her gift is catching lightness
where there seems none
God, to be a hummingbird in flight
with their rapid wing beats
on the breast plate, singing
I am alive, alive, alive,
so goes the song of down and upstrokes,
that thundering, delicate hum and the harmonic 
motion of a great and bursting life 
abled to weather the dark winds
on a diet of sugar and song then swiftly fall 
into the safety of a torpor
and survive the long night of uncertainty. 
And yet, still wake in the morning, 
rise up out of the ashen night, 
kiss again the flowers brief, bright 
breasted and floating
on air, hopeful, and beating. 


Allyson Abernathy holds a BA in Creative Writing from Anderson University. She’s had fiction, non-fiction, and poetry previously published in the Ivy Leagues Literary Journal and the collection Love: An Anthology of Love Poems. She is currently resides in South Carolina.