Firefly. by Lauren Keil

Lampyridae is pale
here in the south,
dying with
the ice.

But I am afraid to pursue,
afraid to speak
in my basement,
watching them flutter
and spark,
layered with dust,
becoming catalysts
for trauma.

And I know
It's from drinking
the ancient liquid
of those stubborn stars,
and I begin to
and think about some
Eastern religion
or tranquilize myself
with sleep.

I ponder about
packing in our synapses like
those boxes we
moved from town to town

I am subdued.

Chemically, I
rush through your theories,
Mr. Jupiter.
And I fill with silence
I am inertia.
I am filled with colliding

My body is a white thing now.