Not Fireflies—

             by Daniel Lawless

an affectation in the South— but plainer: lightning bugs. Not as the poets would have it, you dears carrying your little lanterns behind you, green stars, or the faulty strike of a match; not as you once imagined the visiting souls of your dead parents. Only you, poor boy, lonely god of the backyard, and these flickering insects trapped in a juice glass, to be smeared between your fingers or, tapped with a stick, set free with a magician’s flourish, according to your cold your wondrous heart.
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