POETRY: All the Fireflies Are Dead

There is a consolation in the tethering weight of this

guilt, keeping us small, humble.

It brings its own brand of joy, satisfaction.

First we see lights floating in the sky; next we see

them drifting close.

All we see is ours, light no different.

We invent the cage, perfect it, call it a jar; the jar needs

a lid; we improvise.

The lights don’t know to fear us as they blink, glide, blink.

With the lights in our jars we will be gods, we will

control the heavens from here on earth.

We must become gods. We must.

It brings joy.

The lights die; we catch new lights. The lights die;

we catch new lights. The lights die;

we improvise again, allow them

more of the world.

It brings satisfaction.

We build new cages. It brings joy. We build them larger.

It brings satisfaction. We bring the

universe home with no knowledge of

how to feed it. The lights die.

We build for ourselves now a world where the

cage has its place, but for only a time.

We build a dream of what happens after.

We catch light, release light, catch the same light again.

This we call freedom.

Catch. Joy. Release. Satisfaction. And the weight of it keeps us tethered,

here where we can be gods.