Firefly

a poem

Orange moon rising, peach ice cream,
homemade. 
Blue and white polka-dot dishes.

We turn the lights off inside, bring the darkness
out to the deck with us. The stage is set. 

Warm night, lingering twilight, verdant woods.

The dance of the fireflies begins.
Exaggerated twinkling, white flashes
against the colorless canopy of shadowed oaks.

They are courting
in code,
signaling ardor,
sometimes death.

I wish I did not know that. 
I prefer
to think of them as faeries, 
not cannibals.

Still our imaginations are 
grateful spectators, 
conjuring childhood awe, 
and adolescent Junes:
Kick the can. Spin the bottle. 

June 5th, 1980. 
Gold bangle, left wrist, inscribed
with love from mother on graduation day.

Standing at the railing looking into the night looking for her looking for me,
I twist the bracelet that never comes off,
rub the gold
and she is there like a genie.

All blue eyes and terry cloth apron
over tennis skirt. Iced tea and lemons.
Sliced avocados
in the salad. Wrought
iron patio table,
umbrella up. 
Hamburger night. Fifty cents
for the Good Humor man.
Be careful crossing the street.

She is here in the June night
as she was here 
this morning 
in the first zinnias picked.
Her favorites. 
Just a few
in a blue pitcher. 
Artful,
like the Hockney over 
the breakfast table.

I am not the child of that precision,
but of that control I am.

She is the moon, now high and white
and full, and I 
am the lone firefly 
in the grass, wondering
what the code is, what
the signals mean
up in the trees.
Hoping
I won’t be devoured by
sleeplessness and regret.

-	Susie, June 20, 2024

For some reason, June brings my mother back to me in a powerful way. On this particular Solstice night, watching the fireflies and thinking about her and about Junes past, my thoughts naturally shaped themselves into a narrative poem, rather than an essay.

I never know when this will happen, but there are certain times in my life when narrative poetry – probably my very first art form and the one that I concentrated on in college with an incredible mentor – returns to claim my pen.

It is often at times of transformation (it leapt in with uncanny timing the very week I turned the corner on sobriety). I think poems, more than any other form of writing, often come to you from a mysterious place and you must be open to receiving them.

Thank you for your understanding as I answer that call this week.