~
The fireflies live on
through my poetry,
wings curled around
strands of dialogue in
quotation.
"Watch
how they dart about the pines
in whimsical harmony,
how they rise up towards
the purple heavens
in the hopes that,
someday,
they too
will become one with
the constellations."
Eyes semicolons;
their stories blaze on
even after death,
a perennial glow
filtering through each
line break.
We don't have fireflies
where I'm from,
but sometimes,
when I part the curtains at dusk,
I can see them
shooting
amongst the stars.
This summer,
I have observed
the true difference
between wasps and bees--
the bees and I
live in symbiosis;
I cultivate for them gardens
of Lavendula and Sunflowers
warding off
sunlight that burns too harshly
and
rain that falls too heavily.
They are grateful for
the nectar I have
conjured
from my thumbs.
In return,
they teach me
to protect my veins
from the gluttonous mouths
that will suck the honey
from my bloodstream
the ambrosia from my bones
should I let them get close enough.
For
I will not feel them
when they land on my limbs,
quieting their hum
as they unsheathe their stingers--
will not feel them
until it is too late.
Beware the wasps,
caution the bees--
the wasps, who,
come late august,
will fly low to the ground,
wings stammering
in their decrepit state;
they know death is upon them;
they know I yearn for their
demise.
I probe at the
mosquito bites
on my calves with
fingernails like daggers--
am no longer fearful of the spiders
who mummify the mosquiotes
in the prismatic filagrees
of their cobwebs.
How beautifully these arachnids
feast
upon those who bring me harm.
Image Source:
Artwork by Alexandra Dvornikova
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