Catch me in a crystal cave August 
and I'll take you where all the stars
fell and grew into corn fields--

Seal me inside my mother's mason 
jars-- rows of suspended raspberries
and the runny blueberry sauce
from summers ago when my
brother and I discovered
dirt and knees and what
it meant to be dried by the sun--
collected freckles like cherries-- We save 
fireflies next to the jam 
in the mason jars-- pickle their
bright abdomens until the cabinets glow
in the kitchen when the light only
comes from what's left
of a street lamp or a drowsy moon--
My brother and I sneak here
to eat Milano cookies in the dark
and I tell a ghost story that scares us both--
we sleep on the floor of my
parents bed room and watch the 
stars move in the bellies
of fireflies out the window--
Sneak out the back door and
scavenge enough
stars to make the crystal caves into our
own sky-- this is where we first loved--
this is where we echoed louder than raspberries 
shouted to wake up the moon
-- this is where I learned that in
the dark we were both only
pockets
to keep pieces of light in-- and the rain
was just another rung of our ribs--
and so the power would go out 
in another lightning storm and it
was either August or June--
Wednesday or Sunday-- and we'd 
be looking for our baptism candles 
and matches and find our way through
our house that was also somehow a corn field
and a thicket of raspberries 
and the wide white toothed mouth of a cave--
The thunder cracks open
mason jars in the cabinets and everything glows
on the kitchen floor-- 
boiled berry fires or 
hazy stars coming into bloom--
A celestial vine held over the churning
battery factory lights--
That's where my father works 
sitting beyond the corn like a 
broken kingdom-- that's where all our fathers
worked and collected fireflies in
their pockets to bring home for
us in the morning-- my father
drank diet soda and counted the stars
reflections in a mirror
while my brother and I slept on
the floor of my parents bed room--
we ate breakfast while he ate dinner--
all of us damp from dew and the storm
and the water dripping to build
stalagmites in the crystal caves-- 
I don't miss Kutztown-- but I miss
the mason jars and we what we left
of ourselves still echoing over
the startled leg hairs of the corn--
we siblings bathed in rain and collecting 
the fireflies in our pockets 
in the hopes somehow we could keep
their lights from going out 
or falling into the grass--
The batteries my father made
were never as bright as his
jeep head lights-- the night 
was never as long as a
thunder storm-- sweep
the glass off the kitchen floor
before the jam gets sticky-- 
Boil the fireflies in your pockets
until they turn back into stars.