Hollow Wings

Kiersten Holland

I. In the shade of the crab apple tree that was planted when I was born, I sit and watch the

hummingbirds at the red and yellow feeder. There are ten of them. Maybe 15 now. And more

arrive every second for the sugar water. I hear them buzz as they pass my ear, their wings

speeding through at 50 miles an hour. They flit from the trees to the feeder to the knockout roses

a few feet away, never pausing for longer than a minute wherever they go. It’s hard to keep track

of them, and I wonder what happens when they run out of energy. I wonder if at night they fall

into their nest and think about all the things they didn’t accomplish. I wonder if their hollow

bones and fragile wings feel so heavy and dense that they feel like a different bird. I wonder if

they love their mother. I wonder if their grandmother asks them what they are going to do with

their life. And when they are going to settle down. As if they stay in a town for that long without

suffocating. As if they could stand to be trapped in a small town for the rest of their life. I

wonder if they smile and nod and fly away.

II. The hummingbirds have finally gone home. My grandmother brought in her feeders because

the birds will stay for as long as they can find food. It makes me feel sorry for the lingerers. The

stragglers that get left behind. I hope they make it without a supply of food. The feeders are gone

and the flowers have lost their buds. There is no more nectar for their little beaks to find. When

frivolous, flighty creatures lose their creative drive, they die a slow and painful death. Death by

burn out. There’s no future in that.

III. When my eyes open, I am full of wings, green and blue feathers that shine in the sun, and I

am so thirsty that I could die but there are no plants left and the trees are brown and I am full of

wings, but empty inside, and I can hardly move and I’m all alone and everyone has left and there

there there is the red of a flower with a strange see-through center and yellow yellow where the

sweetness is and when I sink my beak into the nectar I wish I could sigh with the relief and once

again my feathers are quick and light, so light, so I race to the tree and prepare for my departure

because what is a hummingbird without a family and where does it belong when the flowers die

and where will it go when it knows no other place.

IV. My mind is quick with things I cannot say and feelings that do me no good, flitting to things

beyond my control. I am like a hummingbird floating through the air, with a fleeting attention

and I hunger beyond that which I have never known. Except instincts do not guide me and

everyday is a fight toward a future I am not sure that I want. Not sure if I can handle. And when

the bigger birds come, they will pick me off and they will win.

V. Tell me why you falter. As your beak reaches for its salvation, you only pause there for a

moment. Without it you wouldn’t survive. It is as necessary for you as the blood that pumps in

our veins. As you flit farther and farther away from me, I think about the likelihood of us

meeting again. Two flippant creatures unable to decide where they want to go, and aching to find

a place to stay. Because how is it possible to find where you belong when it seems there is no

place on earth that offers you the space to live?

Kiersten Holland is a graduate student in the MA English program at Eastern Illinois University. She works as a Graduate Assistant in the Writing Center. Originally from Tennessee, she was published in Murray State University's undergraduate magazine, "Notations." In between her work in Women and Gender Studies, she enjoys knitting and walking her miniature poodle, Percy.