after Mark Doty The fireflies are trying to teach me their besotted evening ceremony pulse blink pulse blink coy in the tall grass revealing their instruments to the wrens, to the weeping raspberries. I am locked in my tantrum of longing and unbelonging clutching at constellations unwilling to accept the imperfect. My back turned, blindfolded, two swords in my hands. I am sweeping mud. It is time to stop looking away at the phantom place neck deep in shadow. Any small thing can save you— the whir of trumpeting crows, a vine winding its way up, birds taking flight struck into a conflation of joy, clearing your throat while singing at dawn or twilight, rendering words from cloud bank about to break into rain. It is easy to miss these things. What is your leap limit? Have you tested the winking shimmer of season’s change? Stasis is a lie. A firefly lands on my belly floats away.
Julia McConnell is a queer poet and a librarian. Her chapbook, Against the Blue, was published by Finishing Line Press in 2016. Her work has appeared in MockingHeart Review, THIS LAND, All Roads Will Lead You Home, Blood and Thunder, and many anthologies. Originally from Oklahoma, Julia lives in Seattle with her Jack Russell Terrier, Molly Marlova Magdalena McConnell.
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What a spectacular poem! I absolutely LOVE it. Basically describes my life now.