The women in my family are like the fireflies
we caught in Mason jars at the lake house in Summer -
how they strive to glow in a dazzling show
despite the eclipse of despondency.
I remember one Indian Summer
you made one last attempt at escape
afraid of drying out like the leaves
but Mother knew exactly where you'd be.
We followed you to the lake
and slashed holes in your wings,
slipped the jar over your head
and carried you home
where you fluttered uselessly
until your fire-light burned out
and now you are brown and cold
as late November leaves,
now you advise me not to be a trophy
collecting dust on a shelf in the game room,
not a bow or gun like our men,
but an arrow or a bullet -
to aim straight for their hearts
and the exit light.
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