She hadn’t packed yet, just wouldn’t, stamped a foot, flat-
out refused. Her fingers wound around blades of grass,
                     and she tugged, ripping them from the ground.
                     She’d take them with her, in a jar, so that the fireflies,
they’d have some food on the trip down south.
And as she crossed state lines, she shook the jam jar, and the
                     golden rim rattled along with the gravel roads.

But before she reached North Carolina, they were dead,
                    little fallen comrades, “I Spy” companions, and night-
lights. Now there was a Ramada, and a Hilton, and a scratchy blanket.
And she kicked it off and sat upright in bed and
                                          dripped with sweat, because it was July.
                                          The air conditioner rattled, spat out must, and Mama snored.

During the day, the suitcases opened their mouths, swallowed new belongings,
                     an alligator t-shirt for her,
                     a neon yellow sundress for Mama,
                     socks and flip-flops and toothbrushes and underwear to replace
what was left behind in their hurried packing.

Mama didn’t cry herself to sleep anymore.
                     She just drove and drove, and her eyes stayed dry,
                     and her arms weren’t black and purple,
because there was no more screaming, and no more sirens–
just singing.

“It’ll be all right, baby.”
“It’ll be all right.”

Even though they were dead, the fireflies sang from the hotel balconies,
                     and the greasy fast-food chains,
                     and the new apartment in Florida where Daddy could never go.