The earth was a blanket.
No, the earth was just a segment; just a pile of dirt, and rocks that were waiting to be dirt, and some trash sometimes and bugs. But it could have looked like a blanket in this darkness. The way the ocean can look like a blanket if you are out far enough from the shores so that it will smooth like glass or like, well, a blanket.
The earth was not a blanket.
I have caught all the fireflies that I have ever seen. I called the ones from Costa Rica to come out of my memory and burn lightbulb real so I could put them in a jar. Then when the earth was busy being a not-blanket I took shearing scissors for a sheep I wish to own later in life, one that I will call Ralph or Evelynn, and I took to the blanket like train whistles piercing the shoreline. Violently.
This blanket earth has holes.
I have ripped scars in my own backyard.
I took the whole jar of all my memory's fireflies. The ones from Maryland came willingly, remembering how I lay flat on my back reading their scrawled messages and decided I did not need to squish them to see if their insides would make me glow. They came out of gratitude. The jar was full up, a regular firefly cotillion. I explained to them the rules of the dance.
When their lanterns filled up the holes I had dug, this earth slice, it shined like the heavens. I yelled out to the stars: This is Mirror! And the stars, they were knowingly silent, but oh, how they burned.
When the Pelican came over, he was timid at first. No no, I am not human I lied to his black coated wings. I could not see him save for those wild parts left in his eyes. This night, that sky from so far away, this darkness.
I tried to hide my shoulder blades with dirt. I tried to sound like the backyard toads and cicadas. I moved my hands like leaves. Pelican, Pelican. Do you not see? I have made this for you. (And here, the fireflies shined brighter on cue.) An offering. I want to be lovely. I want to make something besides death. Pelican Pelican. Won't you stay? We can brew some tea. I have no desire to speak politics with you. I only want to peel all the human off of you and me.
Pelican blinked once. His wings spread wide and I could not see the fireflies or the stars. I could only see this black black black, this strangling black. This is Mirror. He said.
And yes, I will take some tea.
No, the earth was just a segment; just a pile of dirt, and rocks that were waiting to be dirt, and some trash sometimes and bugs. But it could have looked like a blanket in this darkness. The way the ocean can look like a blanket if you are out far enough from the shores so that it will smooth like glass or like, well, a blanket.
The earth was not a blanket.
I have caught all the fireflies that I have ever seen. I called the ones from Costa Rica to come out of my memory and burn lightbulb real so I could put them in a jar. Then when the earth was busy being a not-blanket I took shearing scissors for a sheep I wish to own later in life, one that I will call Ralph or Evelynn, and I took to the blanket like train whistles piercing the shoreline. Violently.
This blanket earth has holes.
I have ripped scars in my own backyard.
I took the whole jar of all my memory's fireflies. The ones from Maryland came willingly, remembering how I lay flat on my back reading their scrawled messages and decided I did not need to squish them to see if their insides would make me glow. They came out of gratitude. The jar was full up, a regular firefly cotillion. I explained to them the rules of the dance.
When their lanterns filled up the holes I had dug, this earth slice, it shined like the heavens. I yelled out to the stars: This is Mirror! And the stars, they were knowingly silent, but oh, how they burned.
When the Pelican came over, he was timid at first. No no, I am not human I lied to his black coated wings. I could not see him save for those wild parts left in his eyes. This night, that sky from so far away, this darkness.
I tried to hide my shoulder blades with dirt. I tried to sound like the backyard toads and cicadas. I moved my hands like leaves. Pelican, Pelican. Do you not see? I have made this for you. (And here, the fireflies shined brighter on cue.) An offering. I want to be lovely. I want to make something besides death. Pelican Pelican. Won't you stay? We can brew some tea. I have no desire to speak politics with you. I only want to peel all the human off of you and me.
Pelican blinked once. His wings spread wide and I could not see the fireflies or the stars. I could only see this black black black, this strangling black. This is Mirror. He said.
And yes, I will take some tea.
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