Fireflies

The firefly city lies under the pond
where the plastic owl stands vigil,
the fountain of stream-worn pebbles
and cement dry since the builder died.
The children follow the lights to find the streets
of that city where the water is pure
and the fireflies become fairies.
White hitapa blossoms sail onto the deck
where we sit, their bird-like bodies
streaked inside with purple painted veins
and a tangerine brush stroke. The red sun sinks
in the humid air. The neighbor
with a steel plate in his skull tells us about the girl
down the street disintegrated by a power line.
"Terrible," I say, living the horror.
He watched men be burned alive in war.
In Singapore, men sold
their wives or daughters for a handful
of food or coins. At the back
of a restaurant, he watched groups
of them fight over garbage
from the meals inside.
His eyes widen as we share a common
vision of the end of children
by electricity or men by flame
thrower. Features tighten, the bad
leg aches more, joints harden.
I pull my daughter close and kiss her hair.
There's pain and agony we'll never know,
cries in the back alleys we'll never hear.
I think it's only the voice in the wind
that hears the cries of the dispossessed.
When it's over, he asks "What's new."
Nothing, I say. Nothing
is new on this night when fireflies
elude children's grasps, and they
only half-believe my stories of fairies,
the city beneath the pond, and wolf
spiders on the window sill.

copyright 2011 Charles David Miller. All rights reserved.