firefly shrine

i have a threshold garden.
we stop in front of the condemned house
to admire its guts. wishing we were
teenagers so we had the will
to crawl inside. the fireflies 
are starting to die & i don't want
to make peace with it. you sit
on my lap & i tell a story that we've
been married for centuries.
the first & oldest lovers. maybe when
you tell a story it becomes true
in one way or another. there was
a candy stand at the farmer's market
that sold bubble gum cigars.
i pretended to smoke them on 
my parent's porch. banana & kiwi flavor.
i ask the fireflies how they would like
to be remembered this year &
they refuse. as a species they reject memory.
instead, they believe the world is
like an onion. layer by layer.
year by year. the old years right there
in the dirt with you. as i fall asleep 
i don't believe in insects anymore.
you asked me what butterfly i would be
& i confessed "a cabbage white."
something unassuming & completely
assuming. kissing the burials of fireflies.
leaving single blossoms. 
tell me you can see my graveyard
or at least my last mini skirt
before i became a sock collector.
i tell the fireflies i will do what i can.
i bring lightbulbs & glow sticks. i bring
a bowl of clementines almost overripe. 
the remaining fireflies are grateful.
they promise to take as long as they can
to die. you are there too & we 
are singing to them. kiss the root.
the bulb. the blood. see the bats 
& they scrape the sky for radio waves.
a broadcast promising nothing
but an iridescent knuckled dusk.