Yr pritty.

And I know he isn’t talking to the hummingbird zippering the air just behind his left ear.

In his backpack, I imagine:

peanut butter and jelly sandwich, empty juicebox (apple), Marlboro Reds and a crumpled pack of Benson & Hedges Menthol 100s, three changes of clothes with the underwear already turned inside-out twice, a stuffed bunny, a hammer.

The instructions lace my shoes.

The hummingbird opens her ruby throat.

The air swells like a lung.

____

Flint is a writer, activist and itinerant adjunct writing instructor who lives in Los Angeles. She earned an MFA in Writing from the School of Critical Studies at CalArts, and is interested in hybridity, performativity and generative genre-tampering.

This piece was originally published on Flash Flash Click. We are honored to host it here in partnership and collaboration.

Image: “Hummingbird” by David Denicolò