Let the surgeon who opens my motherbe tender as a hummingbird whisperer.Let him pull back the walls of her abdomenand see uncut jewels under his knife.Let him have a pet name for each part —his hummers, oiseaux mouches,his beija-flores, colibris, his almostextinct hooded visorbearer.Let him handle them with crystal instruments,easing droppers down each throatto check their stomach contents are richin micro insects and spider eggs,the nectar of never-before-seen orchids.Let him soothe them as their black eyesturn to watch him. Let them be so calm he canunwrap their dressings to measure their wingsand wipe blood from their feathers.Let him clean each gorget and crestso the colours shine with health.Let my mother's dryads and sylphs,hermits and Incas, her sapphires,her ruby-topaz moustiques,practise flying again — forwards, backwards,on the spot, hovering and hyperactiveto the last in their silk compartments.Let their dissolvable straitjacketsdrop off at the appointed time. Letthe man who closes my mother's bodycheck that each flight feather is intactand return her to the recovery room to land safely.