Last Supper

Summer brought fireflies in swarms.
They lit our evenings like dreams
we thought we couldn't have.
We caught them in jars, punched
holes, carried them around for days.

Luminous abdomens that when charged
with air turned bright. Imagine!
mere insects carrying such cargo,
magical caravans flickering beneath
low July skies. We chased them, amazed.

The idea! Those tiny bodies
pulsing phosphorescence.
They made reckless traffic,
signaling, neon flashes forever
into the deepening dusk.

They gave us new faith
in the nasty tonics of childhood,
pungent, murky liquids promising
shining eyes, strong teeth, glowing skin,
and we silently vowed to swallow ever after.

What was the secret of light?
We wanted their brilliance:
small fires hovering,
each tiny explosion
the birth of a new world.

Sharan Strange teaches at the Parkmont School in Washington, D.C., and has recently been writer-in-residence at Fisk University, Spelman College and the California Institute of the Arts. Her poetry has been widely published in journals and anthologies, and her first collection of poetry Ash (Beacon Press) was published in 2001.

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