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.
