Southern Limerence

by Peter Hogan

Southern Limerence

Fireflies don’t question
infatuation with screen-in
buzzing, instead they glide
towards fluorescent oblivion,
blinded but without blinking,
so I know derangement is love
and is to snip sprigs of plastic
wings from my back because
flying aint a thing without you; is
to slice sections of my eyes,
scale magnolias like mountains,
and paste them across purple
sky like stars so you’d know
I need infinite ways of seeing you;
is to name single curls on your head
different shades of yellow and then
change their names just to do it
again; is streaking rays bouncing
off the brook just right of the front
porch, a pair of rocking chairs waiting
on a lighting storm; is when I ask
to make love in the yard, claw-foot
copper tub, you and me and thunder,
crooked oak branches, tornado winds;
is if lighting strikes and conducts,
then it’ll take us both and I’ll prove
it’s not crazy for wanting to die intertwined
with you; is to reckon your eyes actually
glow, not just a turn of phrase but
undoubtedly believe it, tobacco tooth
grit spittoon believe it, the way fireflies
might believe it before
being swallowed by light.

Anger and the Seven Year Old by Michael Mau