Because I can’t fly home now, there are things I’ve come to miss. Today, in July, it’s lightning bugs floating over the front lawn, sporadic showers of yellow-green luminescence— random on random off. We stalked
Because I can’t fly home now, there are things I’ve come to miss. Today, in July, it’s lightning bugs floating over the front lawn, sporadic showers of yellow-green luminescence— random on random off. We stalked them at twilight, the buzz of wings tickling our cupped palms. We let most go, trapping a few in mayo jars, scattered with the naive kindness of grass and leaves. How could we know insects drank nectar, ate small bugs and slugs, or lit up looking for sex? Inspired by a flash of compassion, some kids poked air holes in the lids. Lightning bugs must breathe. We carried our makeshift lanterns until light died out and left them on front steps or under the azaleas.
Alan Toltzis
Alan Toltzis is the author of two poetry collections—49 Aspects of Human Emotion and The Last Commandment—and two chapbooks, Nature Lessons and Mercy. His poems have appeared in numerous print and online publications and he serves as an editor for The Mizmor Anthology. Find him online at alantoltzis.com; follow him @ToltzisAlan.