firefly dinner

i learned how to eat stars
from the fireflies who 
knit their own sky 
shoulder to shoulder
with gutters & the billboards. 
you cannot let the capitalism light
kick the glowstick out of you. 
there are berries & persimmons who grow
on the side of the big white knuckle highway. 
sometimes when i call a friend
it feels like weaving. i open my mouth
& there are all the galaxies i have
swallowed & who have swallowed me.
my one dog likes to kill stuffed animals 
& toss their cloud guts all over the bed.
she would make a good comet
& i see that for her one day. i refuse
to imagine us as stop signs or guns. 
sometimes i wonder if the planets
write poems about our smallness
just like we write poems about
their gigantic faces. when i came home
& the house did not have legs
i was relieved. the monsters who live
in the woods by the driveway 
demanded some kind of offering
in exchange for my absence. i brought
them an apple from the discount bin.
maybe those seeds will turn into a star.
a bright & wild glowing thing
right in my yard. right beside
where the fireflies used to talk 
before autumn came with a shovel.
i learned everything i know from
the fireflies. how to say goodbye without
saying goodbye. the last one at the end
of the august. a little high five voice.
i call you on the drive back. the early dark.
i wanted to make sure you were
still there. that you were coming home too.