sometimes, the quarter moon looks
like a big grin carved into the night
but tonight, it feels more
like gritted teeth and prayers
said with white knuckles

the first fireflies i’ve seen
this year wink in and out, sending
messages i can’t translate into
english that still feel like a cool
towel settling over my shoulders
the way my mom would tuck one
around me when i was dry-heaving
over an empty toilet, caught between
panicked emetophobia and a weary
resignation that things are gonna
get worse before they get better

my mom didn’t know about
abdominal migraines, but
she knew how big a difference
a small comfort makes when
the human experience feels
wretched and cruel

the fireflies don’t know about
medicaid cuts or alligator alcatraz
but i can’t help but wonder if they
are evidence of a living planet that
feels human pain as much as any
mother who has to watch her
children shake, sweat, and sob