"Firefly" by B Jensen Hale

When we were children, you would force 
me out at night to catch fireflies.

I didn’t want to.

We would collect a dozen or so in a jar 
before you reached in and grabbed one.

You'd tear at its body at the abdomen,
squeeze its juices out onto your arm,
extinguish the light.

My disgust aside you shone 
radiant as the moon above.


We grew. 
So did the breadth 
of what you dragged me into,
but my boldness, too, had grown.

I can only picture what happened. 

I wasn’t there
but could have been. 

The azure form of your Pontiac wrapped 
around the steel pole, broken at the midpoint.

You, the lamp above.