i was raised and lived
in the midwest
as a child
the nights were hot and sticky
my little sisters and i
stayed out late
past the mosquitos
when the cool came into
the backyard
and the lightning bugs would lift
from their underground dens
magically throbbing
yellow glows of love
all through the night air.
with a peanut butter jar we'd run
and jump and catch them
in our pudgy bare feet
we pulled fragrant grass with our little fists
for our new found pets
to make them feel at home
in their glass houses.
when we caught 4 or 5 or 6 of them
we would sit
on warm concrete steps
of the stoop
and watch
as they filled the jar with light
and crawled desperately
over the grass
and each other
their wee red heads and
gray striped wings whirring
their little legs trying
to climb the slippery glass
our cold sweaty hands
held over the top
feeling the tickle of their
great attempts to escape
with a piece of granite and a nail
holes would be punched into
the jar's lid
and screwed on tight
for the night
time for bed
in the morning
they were dead
the first time
i cried
but then
i got used to it.
