Fireflies

 

I lose mud
from my boots
in upscale bars.
Forget to change
shoes in transit,
rural to urban,
farm to market
and back again.
Parallel park
with eyes closed but
open my screen door
and gravel spills
into city streets where
pine needles trail me
through pastel boutiques.
On a humid night
in the thick of
honeysuckle
season,
a man will
take my hand
and find the
family soil lodged
beneath fingernails,
dirty harvest moons
I forgot to hide.
He’ll pause,
whisper,
“Where is this from?”
which is to say,
“Where is home?”
“A place with trees,
roots, goats,
if you believe it.”
And he’ll ask,
“Is that hay
in your hair?”
I’ll reach to rake
it away, sorry
ready in my
bourbon throat.
But he’ll
lean down,
slow as honey,
to taste
the sap
beading
on my lips,
look into my
evergreens
and say
to the barkeep,
“I’d like
a mason jar
full of
whatever
the hell
that is.”
And in the glow
of a downtown
chandelier,
I’ll bloom
and say,
“Stop,
you’re giving me
fireflies.”

 

 

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