Clasped in her hands
are the secrets she keeps.
Fireflies captured mid flight-
at midnight, she creeps.
Their sparkle, their sight
now restricted, air tight.
She hides them away,
Reassured they are not showing. Passerbys look
Yet no one can see them glowing.
Insects as new pets.
A hoarder, she collects.
A private sinful stash of consealed facts,
stowed away like getaway cash.
They cry out and weep,
locked up inside deep.
Begging to be released
But she closes her eyes and goes to sleep.

we shucked our corn
in a field of sun
like farmers before the feast.
their husks of green
covered the ears
to keep them deaf and dumb,
to keep them unaware,
of the violence they would succumb.
moist with dirt, smelling sweet,
our hands became the tools
of poor mid-western violence.
we stripped their bodies bare,
clean of rotting silk,
that fell between our toes.
butter and salt,
on a table of barn wood,
that splinters to rough touch,
in a freshly mowed yard,
filled with light of summer dusk,
when the ground begins
to cool the air,
where the bugs
illuminate the night.
there were no screams
but
laughter could be heard.

the disappearance of
lightning-bugs-scares
the little dark
place
behind my rib-
cage.

it twangs with
a need of a flutter

and a beat.beating.trying
flying- sensation of wind-under
a beetles wingss. a crea
ture. of peculiarloveliness that
twinges into theee word bee.t.ling

the disappearance of lightning.
bugss. I’m afraid to say. Is bec-
ause… I i I swallowed
them
into
and swallowed them
into the dark of
my chest.