Fireflies drilled
golden pinpoint holes in the satin night
draped over the graveyard
That was the last you saw of summer
before creating winter
in the heart of JuneWe had the nerve to dream,
create, kill
and I would have to learn to manufacture a grudge
from a scorpion
We inhabited the tender spots
On the crooks of each other’s necks
(This is the bedtimes story
you tell to the fire ants)We slipped on the mudslide of fermenting mullberries
and monsoon mayhem
Your mouth opened like a rose for the rain
where my mouth moved like a magnet for more
Pleasure was merely a prelude for pain
yet with beggar’s bruises on bent knees,
I’ve never been one to complainJune was bare feet leaving
dirty footprints on tile,
sneaking glances through windows
to become intimate with the secrets of strangers,
and learning the eccentricities of life
through the observant eyes of a scientistJune was holding a bottle of pinot noir to a lamp
and marveling at the blood stain red of wine in the light
then exactly one hour later
holding the same bottle
to the same lamp
and marveling at the June green of empty
through the eyes of your false sunJune was the congregation of fireflies
Preaching adventure from the pulpit of night
and laughter that could only be tickled awake
by the fingertips of the agave plant
That waited for you back homeand June was the burden of “back home”
while new home burgeoned and blossomed
and you caught the bouquet of life
with moth wing fingers
that left dusty fingerprints on the ribbon
before the crumbled in to backwoods debris
under the enduring afternoon rain
Steve Lathrop. flickr