Firefly
by Laura Garrison

Your luminous posterior

silently proclaims the arrival

of twilight.

First there was darkness,

and now there is you,

and soon there will be dozens

blinking out bulletins

in the yew tree by the pool.

Time passes.

A wind ripples the water

and stirs the branches.

The tiny lights whirl and blur,

becoming a carnival midway

glimpsed from the carousel

at midnight.

I lift one hand from the brass pole

that spears my painted horse

(there are carved roses in his mane)

and pluck something

from my hair.

You sit in my cupped palm,

a slim black beetle with bright stripes,

flickering fitfully as the world swirls

around us.

 

Sylvania

Cold starlight drips from the branches

and puddles on my sleeping bag.

The dying fire is at my back;

the endless woods stretch before me,

exhaling mingled smells of moss

and nameless, night-blooming flowers.

 

A turtle splashes in a stream.

An owl calls my name from nowhere.

Two teal eyes beckon in the dark.

Enchanted, I leave the circle

of campers in their soft cocoons

and wade barefoot into the night.

 

When I am discovered early

the next morning in a small cave

in a pile of sleeping foxes,

I open my mouth to explain

(why is there fur stuck in my teeth?)

but find that I can only growl.

 

LAURA GARRISON grew up in Erie, Pennsylvania, and currently lives in Maryland with her husband, Justin, and attends graduate school in Washington, DC. She loves chickadees, Roquefort, and old cemeteries. She hates subways and beets.

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