Thursday Feb 21

Tubbs Poetry 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.
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.