MY MOTHER DREAMT I WAS A HUMMINGBIRD

by Anna Egeland

living in her cheek. Every once in a while,
she’d place a seed on her tongue to sustain me.

The dream disturbed her because it lacked logic, she said. A sign of aging.

I am no longer trying to be understood.

For months, I’ve been recording each thing I consume, doctor’s orders:
generic oatmeal made in the microwave and cooled with an ice cube,
the whites of two hard-boiled eggs (the yolks sit like twin moons in the trash),
a teaspoon of manuka honey before bed.

After two weeks, the dietician tells me I’m not going to die—
no follow-up appointment necessary.

Is it enough to stay alive?

To gum seeds from a tongue,
to crouch in a warm cheek,
to flit from one sweet bud
to the next?

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Anna Egeland

Anna Egeland grew up in Iowa City, IA and has lived in Massachusetts, France, Alabama, Florida, and most recently Seattle, WA. She holds an MFA in poetry from the University of Florida. She was a finalist for the 2025 Rash Award in Poetry and a recipient of a college prize from the Academy of American Poets. Her poems can be found on poets.org and in the Broad River Review (forthcoming).