Firefly Capital of the World
Bright highway lines fracture the moon’s glow,
or maybe it’s just the clouds cracking closer and closer to the ground.
Under the blanket of sky, she traces my knuckles and calloused fingertips.
She puts her feet on the dashboard. We are flying
between the mountain crests, under miles and miles of sky
and an endless cloak of fireflies.
Her blue-green eyes catch the flies’ kerosene glow,
and the wind from the open window
tangles her hair. She’s laughing, shifting,
dynamic, never static.
Every day, she is new.
Yesterday, I learned that she feels safe driving through the countryside,
but only when she isn’t alone.
Today, I learn that she snuck in between my bones, gentle fingers
between baby-bird-hollow ribs, lifting me out of rust.
Tomorrow, I will learn that she is teaching me to trust my caged hips
and my barbed-wire thighs.
Her gentle touch is a vine between iron gates,
and that is enough.