“…in front of the only house I’ve considered home
night strung fireflies, stars…”
In summer, in front
of the only house I’ve considered
home, night strung fireflies, stars
from the Earth. Their homes,
the pine trees that framed them
stood as beams, holding these never-named
constellations in place. And I
hunted them. Each ascending ember
its pulse brought my palms
to their death. Some would fade
as broken comets. Some would break
like a bulb quicker than a wish. In secret,
those summers I would cradle those
failing pacifists, watch them
stumble between my fingers, sometimes
able to flap sometimes able to shine
in their last twitch of breath.
Originally published in Oberon. Click link below for original version.
“Fireflies.” Oberon. (2009): 85. Print.