Inside the world of lightning bugs,
the word off seems inconsequential,
as they flitter, honeyed and small, over
the cobbled wall around my grandfather’s house.
The thoraxes protrude and flicker on neon,
then off dark. They gather then disperse,
exulting in themselves, their light bumbling
through the air, as if skipping over molecules.

The windows of the house seem opaque,
but they cradle the reflection of the fireflies,
little moons orbiting, chaotic in their way,
elemental things, faceless things, that seem
like souls or bodies, real bodies tapping like wings,
ensnared inside a bulb. If I look hard enough
into the house, I can see its age, each bug lighting up
a wrinkle, uprooting a cancer, discovering bones, a carbon date –

and how long have I been watching
and how long has it been off?
I used to be so hungry for the on:
the fever on my blood, the dog on my leash,
the hair on my brows, the sunlight on my machine.

The air where the fireflies float
doesn’t seem real. Fractured, some fissure
in the wall that holds them inside this place.
If only stillness. If only the ground drew open
its jaws and extricated these motherless moons
as the house pilfered their light and their endlessness,
and then it was morning.

•

Bayleigh Fraser is the editor of Caesura Poetry Magazine, an e-publication that focuses on publishing new and emerging poets. Her work has appeared in publications such as A Bad Penny Review, Motley Press and The Social Poet.