Fireflies

The air in this house
is so warm, closer
than close.
In different rooms
they flutter,
eyes closed within
their own worlds.

Faces bathed in twilight,
headphones mainline
Jackie, Sam, Aretha
Dionne, James or Smokey
into their pulsing bodies—
who they were then
lives inside every adlib
& holler, shooting
from fingertips spread
above their heads.

Inside the brightest nook
of themselves, they are
everything they did
right, everything that
made sense at the time
still bringing
residual joy. Ambient,
my parents winged
& lit from every angle
hover, untaxed delight!

I don’t blink, don’t dare
try to capture them
in the mason jar
of my hungers
nor halt them
shimmering, spellbound.